Raised Like Warriors
by nocturnal08
Summary: One Month after the fire, John begins to hunt. John, baby Sammy and five year old Dean slowly recover from the loss they have suffered. Chapter 28: Sammy's Questions. Warning for inappropriate seasonality.
1. Resolution

**Raised Like Warriors **

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, I'm just borrowing them and turning them inside out a little.

Summary: Preseries. Focus on John's transition into a hunter and how he trains the boys.

**Part**** I.**** Resolution**

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_Sam: So he's working over-time on a "Miller Time" shift; he'll stumble back in sooner or later._

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_January 1, 1984_

John Winchester was a restless man in the literal sense of the word. Even before Mary's death he was prone to wakefulness in the darkest hours of the night. He would steal from their bedroom quietly, not wanting to wake his sleeping wife. He let the TV keep him company, drown out the dark thoughts that were left in the wake of the war. Mary left him to himself, knowing that John needed the time to unwind. He decompressed slowly in the dark, letting the sounds of the Kansas nights mix with the murmur of the television. That was before, though; a time when he felt safe. John blamed himself for being a blind fool. _Never again_, he promised himself.

Now that Mary was gone, there were nothing but dark thoughts left. Everything was slipping away and John couldn't even bring himself to care. All he knew was that he had to keep the boys safe. That, and the overwhelming desire for revenge.

Their house was gone, sold. He had given up the garage. He and the boys were living off insurance claims and John couldn't seem to tie himself to any place. It had taken a couple months to wake up, a couple of months to alienate any friend he might have had.

_What kind of hell is this?_ The man asked himself, glaring out at the cold shadows outside in the hotel parking lot. A dusting of snow spoke to the deep winter that was upon them. Florescent lights blinked back. The room's clock read 3:30 AM.

John had never been a fanciful man. He had seen some serious shit during the war, knew exactly what the human race was capable of. Now he realized that the human race was only the tip of the iceberg. There were threats out there more sinister than his darkest dreams had hinted.

Unable to sleep, John stood guard over his sleeping sons. They lay there entwined, clinging together for mutual comfort, Dean's arm thrown protectively around Sammy. Just looking at them was hard, like looking at the sun after too many hours in the darkness. For a long time Sam's cries were the only thing that broke through the stupor of John's grief. Sometimes he had a hard time believing they were real. They were the only reality he had left, though, and John swore to himself and to Mary's memory that no one, _nothing_, would be touch his boys again.

He took out the book, leather bound. Mary had given it to him, hoping that it might ease his insomnia to write about whatever drove him into himself. It had survived the fire, along with most of their things. Only the nursery had been completely destroyed. John squeezed his eyes shut against the images. Mary's face disfigured with pain, her voice deafened by the roar of the fire, her body burning. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, felt it sting as it went down his throat.

Pictures of the old nursery, the charred walls speaking volumes, were pasted to the first page of the journal. John's watery eyes looked at them in the dim light of the desk lamp, trying for the millionth time to make sense of it all. The police investigation was officially closed, John had already been written off as deeply disturbed and his testimony had been completely ignored, except by child services. The inquiry that followed was enough to shake John from Lawrence, send him on a crazy trek across country. _Maybe this is sick_, John thought to himself, remembering the looks that his so-called friends had been giving him of late. _Maybe I _am _crazy_.

He remembered was Missouri had said, though, the things she had known. Now his eyes were open and somehow he felt the nightmare was just beginning. So casually, everything he loved had been ripped away. They knew nothing about the _thing _that had caused this, the thing that had caught the ex-marine unaware.

_Evil_, Missouri had said, but she hadn't been able tell him much more than that. But she had trained him in the basic arts of self-preservation. Salt rings, cat's eye shells, the first lines of defense against the supernatural.

He was headed west with his boys, looking for a man named Daniel Elkins. The man called himself a _hunter_ and John liked the sound of that.

His head was spinning a little and John knew it was time to put the bottle down. He clumsily checked the hotel lock, waking Dean up as he pulled the heavy drapes closed.

The boy's sharp eyes looked over at John with silent concern. His four-year old arms tightened slightly around his brother. He watched as his daddy stumbled to bed fully clothed and a tear ran down the little face. Sammy whimpered in his sleep.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean whispered, wishing that it was true.

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Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Review if you have an opinion to register. 


	2. Ammo

**Raised Like Warriors**

** Part II. Ammo**

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_**Sam**: Hey, Dad? Whatever happened to that college fund?  
**John**: I spent it on ammo._

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_January 3, 1984_

John pulled the impala into the parking lot in front of the arms dealership, glancing nervously over at his son in the front seat. Dean looked back at him with large, soulful eyes. The grief in them was enough to make John squirm, but there was also the beginnings of curiosity lurking there. _What are we doing here, Dad? _Dean's expression asked. John answered the unspoken question with a reassuring smile, but he was asking himself the same thing.

The small shop looked a little shady, but John had done his homework about the place. He knew that he could get a real deal here. _And it god damn better be worth it_, he thought grimly. He had emptied Sam's college fund earlier that day and also dipped into Dean's savings. My boys aren't going to college, John thought grimly. But there wasn't time to dwell on that tragedy when he was still had the present to deal with, so he put the car in park and killed the engine.

Sammy wasn't sleeping in the backseat. His face was riveted on his father and brother, little brow furrowed slightly. John knew he was trying to make sense of the images, the sounds, the world that was still so new. _I'm right there with ya, buddy_, he thought. As if in response, Sammy whimpered a little.

"Hey Dean, can you give Sammy a bottle for me?" John asked, suddenly very tired.

Dean nodded and clambered into the back next to the car seat. John pulled a bottle from the diaper bag and handed it to Dean, who steadied it for Sam. The six-month-old then had eyes only for his brother, one little hand on the bottle and one in a fist beside his face. Dean was so gentle with Sam that it made John's heart ache, but he was grateful for the help. "Good boy," he said in appreciation.

That earned him an actual smile from the four year old, whose gaze held John a moment longer.

"Hey Dad?" John was a little surprised at the sound of his voice. Dean had been so quiet since the fire, hadn't said much of anything for days. "Can I have some juice, too?"

John internally berated himself for being a crappy father. _You idiot, you have TWO sons_, he growled inwardly. But there was only enough for the baby. Quickly pulling himself together he responded, "Sure buddy, we'll go to the store as soon as I'm done with this."

Dean nodded, quickly hiding any disappointment. "O.k, Dad."

John tore himself away, uttering the now familiar instructions. "Dean, I want you to stay in the car with Sammy. I'm just going to be inside there," he pointed to the arms shop. "Lock the doors after me and if anything happens, lean on the horn."

John saw Dean swallow his panic at the thought of him leaving. After all the kid had been through, he understood the insecurity. Dean didn't want to lose the only parent he had left. _Be brave, kiddo_, John thought as Dean managed to nod obediently. "O.k, Dad," he said softly.

The boy's eyes followed him as John hurried away. The father glanced back only once as the bell on the door jingled and he entered the store.

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Author's note: Thanks for reading! Please review! 


	3. Hunter

**Raised Like Warriors**

**  
Part III. Hunter **

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_**Sam**: Wait, so, you came all the way out here for this Elkins guy?  
**John**: Yeah. He was….he was a good man. He taught me a hell of a lot about hunting. _

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_January 4, 1984_

Elkin's cabin was a ways out of town. The man obviously liked the seclusion. None of the people in town had had much positive to say. John had questioned the locals as covertly as possible, claiming to be an old buddy of Elkins', looking to reestablish the acquaintance. From what he had gathered, Daniel was the official town crazy. People said he had lost his family years ago in some kind of terrible accident. Had gone insane with grief. John wondered which kernels of truth lay behind their hushed whispers about serial killers and wild animals, one drunk fuck had even muttered _vampires_. No one seemed to know the whole story.

_Yet, here we are_, John sighed to himself as he pulled nervously up gravel driveway.

The boys were getting restless. Dean hated sitting still and John could see that he dreaded being told to wait in the car yet again. _Damn, damn, damn, _John thought to himself, _Elkins' is going to think you're a damn fool dragging your kids across the country like this. _

He motioned for Dean to get out, but cautioned him to stay nearby. As he pulled Sam from the car seat, the boy hiccupped and spit up the morning's bottle all over John's shoulder. While this seemed to make the boy a lot happier, it didn't really improve John's mood. He smiled grimly, _you're not going to make this easy on me, are ya kid? _

Cursing silently, John cleaned himself up and changed Sam's diaper while he was at it. He pushed away the acute embarrassment of the situation. This was his son, who didn't have anyone in the world but him and his brother. John promised himself that he would make sense of it all, if only for the boys' sake.

There were few things ridiculous about John Winchester, but he knew that he and his sons were a curiosity to say the least. While his pride made him bristle at the kindness of strangers, John knew that tragedy radiated from the disheveled trio. They rarely entered a diner without being offered free desserts, especially now that his precocious four-year old had learned the effectiveness of his mournful looks.

While John attended to business, Dean was drawing in the dirt with a stick. He paused when he felt someone's eyes on him. He went over to stand by his Dad, feeling safe in John's shadow. "Dad, look," He said softly, pointing to the grizzly man who stood glaring at them from the doorway to the cabin.

John straightened, sizing the stranger up out of habit. Elkins was shorter than John, but had a steadiness about him. John's marine instincts told him that this was a man he would be glad to have beside him, or even in command, when things got hairy. There was a familiar tenseness in the man. Their eyes met and John felt a dark kind of kinship with the stranger.

_A hunter, eh? _John thought. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know everything that those dark eyes spoke of, but wasn't the type to balk. _Not after everything I've been through_. This was his path, chosen for him by the tragedy of that night. John had never been so sure of anything in his entire life. He tightened his grip on Sammy for a moment, putting his lips softly to the baby's head. _Alright, son, here we go then. _He stepped resolutely towards the cabin, Dean trailing him close.

"My name's John Winchester." He offered as a token.

"Daniel Elkins." The man reached out his hand and John shifted Sammy slightly to shake it firmly. There was a kind of dark humor in Elkins' voice when he said, "Why don't you boys come inside?"

Sensing that the edge had left his Dad's stance, Dean hopped up the stairs on one foot. Reaching the top step, he steadied himself on John's pant leg. His Dad absentmindedly dropped a hand to caress the four-year-old's head.

"Don't touch anything," he warned as they passed through the doorway.

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Author's note: I look forward to reviews! 


	4. Dad's Story

**Raised Like Warriors**

**  
Part IV. Dad's Story **

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_**Dean:** "And, um. Well, you know Dad's story as well as I do.__ Mom was...was on the ceiling. Whatever put her there was long gone by the time Dad found her."  
**Sam: **"And he never had a theory about what did it?"  
**Dean: **"If he did he kept it to himself. God knows we've asked him enough times."_

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_January 4, 1984_

The cabin was dim, a bit rough around the edges. John ducked through the doorway, still holding Sam in his arms. He paused a moment, his eyes quickly seeking out the exits, making several mental notes. His marine habits had never really left him, but Mary's presence had had a softening effect. Now he was at his prime, or rather, sharper than ever. How had he not realized how much he had to lose?

Elkins didn't say anything, letting John get the full effect of the array of hunting memorabilia, his stacks of newspaper clippings, the knives and guns arranged over the small workspace. He had barely a crumb of food in the house, but never went low on ammunition.

"Woah, Dad, look at that," Dean pointed to a collection of antique guns that were displayed above the fireplace. The way he was flitting around the room made John nervous, so he put a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Yeah, that's pretty spiffy equipment, eh kiddo?" John said, leaning down with Sammy so they were all staring at a row of dusty books, all filled with notes and clippings.

"Mmm, hmm," Dean agreed, eyes wide.

"Don't touch anything." John said again, seriously. He straightened and continued his own inspection of the hunter's domain.

One shelf in particular caught John's eye. Teeth. His preliminary revulsion was suppressed as John realized that they obviously weren't human. _Fangs?_

Daniel met his questioning glance with a knowing smile. "Why don't you take a seat, Son?" The old hunter said, not unkindly.

John grinned back humorlessly. He might be the rookie in this line of work, but John knew a trick or two. He was sure that, given the opportunity, he would prove himself to the old man. He endured the condescension, _for now anyway_, and sat down.

Distracted by the sight of Dean leaning over to get a closer look at a bright silver dagger, John barked the boy's name. "What did I say?" John demanded sternly. Jumping back and guiltily thrusting his arms behind his back, Dean gave his father a hurt look. "I _didn't,_" he said hastily. _But you were thinking about it_, John thought wryly as he settled Sam in his lap, letting the baby wrap his tiny hands around his Dad's thumb.

"So, John Winchester," Elkins began, "what is it that I can do for you?"

John was silent for a moment.

"I heard you were a hunter," John said bluntly.

"Well, depends on what you mean," Elkins responded, not easing up in the slightest.

"I heard you took out a Werewolf in Aspen last spring."

Elkins grinned, but responded by standing up and going over to his desk. He opened a book filled with writing and newspaper clippings, searched for a certain reference point and set the book in front of John. John leafed through the pages. It included news articles from the local paper. Several marginalia remarks led John through the process. Elkins had suspicions about mysterious deaths, tourists gone missing, had recorded the incidents and cross checked them with the phases of the moon. Silver bullet through the heart was underlined, the last entry.

John leaned forward, chin in his hands, regarding Elkins with a decided look on his face. "Three months ago," John began, "my wife, Mary, was killed in a fire." God how those words hurt. How many times had he told this story already? How many eyes had clouded with pity and concern, how many faces turned away to hide their disbelief at what he was about to say next? "I think it was caused by something supernatural."

Elkins exhibited none of the typical responses. Instead his eyes burned even brighter. John felt no pity from the man, just silent empathy. His dark eyes urged him to continue. John pulled the journal from his bag, opened to the photographs and pushed it over for the man to inspect. Elkins didn't react to the appearance of the journal, so similar to his own records, except through a slight quirk in the corner of his mouth.

John felt literally ripped apart, with all his bleeding appendages laid bare on the table in front of the man. _Don't worry, I'm a doctor_ was the only consolation he got as Daniel examined the photos like an expert. When he had absorbed them, Elkins' gaze again encouraged John to continue.

Dean, who had continued his inspection of the room and settled down on the ragged rug to play with some plastic army men, now returned to his Dad's side. He knew exactly what subject had been broached and was looked seriously at Elkins and the journal. He leaned his head gently against John's shoulder, seeking to comfort and be comforted. John responded by pulling Dean onto his lap beside Sam. He tightened his grip around the boys, as if to protect them from the story he was about to tell.

"It was the middle of the night, I was downstairs. I musta been sleeping, 'cause I woke up when I heard Mary yell for Sammy." He indicated the baby with a nod of his head. "I ran up the stairs, calling her name. Went into the nursery. Sam was still in his crib. I didn't _see _anything." John's voice faltered slightly. "There was blood… it dripped, from the ceiling. Fell on my hand as I was standing over Sammy." John swallowed hard. "I looked up and Mary was pinned to the ceiling... and the room erupted into fire. It was bent on consuming her. Burned her alive."

Dean clung to his father's arm, face ashen as he listened to the retelling of the story. He had heard it all before, but each time the nightmare lived again in his little mind.

"I grabbed Sam, Dean took him out of the house," John squeezed his eldest appreciatively. "Went back for Mary, but there was, she was… she was dead. The fire grew more intense and I had to… had to leave." John ran a hand over his face.

"No one knew anything, the police… said it was some sort of electrical thing. _wiring. _I, no one would believe me." John's voice steadied as he moved past the worst of the retelling. "A psychic, Missouri Mosely, she did a reading on the house. Said whatever it was, it was evil and it was gone."

Now John's voice was hard. "I am going to hunt down the son of a bitch that did this to my family. I am going to find it and I am going to kill it."

Elkins nodded, seeming lost in thought or his own recollections. Saying nothing he got up and poured out two liberal glasses of whiskey from a bottle in his desk. He set them on the table and went over to the shelves. After a moment he pulled out three tomes, shaking off the excess dust. He placed them on the table, leaning back in his chair. "First step is research," Elkins said by way of instruction.

John squeezed Dean again, then gently pushed him off his lap. Dean reached out for Sam, saying nothing. John ruffled his hair and passed the boy his baby brother. Dean's eyes lingered a moment on the whiskey. "There's juice in the bag," John prompted, hoping the boy was just thirsty.

Dean carried Sam over to the rug, where he kept the seven-month old distracted while Daddy worked.

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Author's note: I would love to know what y'all are thinking. Please Review! 


	5. Discipline

**Raised Like Warriors**

**  
Part V. Discipline **

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_**Sam: **I don't understand the blind faith you have in the man. I mean, it's like you don't even question him.  
**Dean: **Yeah, it's called being a good son!_

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_February 1, 1984_

John rented a house in town, spent all his time training with Elkins. He ignored his prying neighbors and refused to acknowledge his dwindling bank account balance. He lost himself in the papers and books, almost forgot his own tragedy in reading about violent death, spirits that roamed the shadowy byways of human existence, monsters that broke through mankind's feeble delusions. He was arming himself, preparing for the fight that lay ahead.

He and Elkins poured over the news, clipping the articles that hinted at the supernatural. John learned to listen to what reporters weren't saying, to explain the things that defied explanation.

He had known the guy a month when he got a call.

"John, this is Daniel. I have a lead on a vengeful spirit, seems pretty open and shut. Goin' to salt and burn the bones tonight, if you're up to it."

"Where is it?"

"Body's buried in a town about an hour and a half south of here."

"The Timothy Penn murder?"

"You have been doing your homework. Yep, traced it back to Charles Parker and Harriet Yates. Fifty years ago, the night before their wedding, she catches him with another woman and shoots him dead, then takes her own life. Since then there have been twelve brutal, unexplainable deaths in the area, Tim being the most recent. All male, all engaged to be married."

"Alright, if you're sure. I'll meet you there around sundown."

Hanging up, John glanced over at his boys.

Sam, who had recently become a lot more mobile, was squirming to get down from the highchair. Couldn't really blame him. That thing was a piece of crap. _What happened to that nice highchair with those blue dogs on it from their old house?_ John asked himself. He couldn't remember, probably been sold when they moved out. That was idiotic. They had found this one at a garage sale, thing was falling apart.

Dean was eating cereal for breakfast. Feeling his father's glance, the boy looked up and gave John a grin. "Hey Dad, look." The four year proudly balanced hid spoon on his nose.

"Very impressive, eat your cereal," John said dryly.

"Yes, sir," Dean replied, slurping enthusiastically to show his compliance. They had a little talk about proper respect the day before and John was glad to see that the boy had taken the reprimand to heart.

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Dean was a good boy, not one to cause trouble and usually polite and obedient. He was guarded and shy around strangers but Leslie, the woman who ran the daycare in the basement of the small church, holy ground making it the safest childcare facility in the town according to Elkins, had managed to earn the boy's trust. She, in turn, had nothing but good things to say about John's sons. That's why John had been surprised when he had come to pick them up the night before, to find Dean sitting stubbornly in time-out, scowling darkly. 

"_Your face is gonna freeze like that," Mary had told the pouting three-year old a year ago. "You'll end up looking like your father!"_

_John had barked a surprised laugh, then fixed her with a virulent mock glare._

"_See!" Mary had laughed. _

"_Good," Dean grumped, the beginnings of a grin peeking through. _

The memory made John tired. He raised an eyebrow at the boy, who ducked his head, shamefaced, as John went to gather Sam from the other room.

He got the details of the altercation from Leslie. Apparently Dean had been displeased with a perceived slight of his baby brother. Some young upstart, thinking it his duty to regulate block usage, had appropriated the wedge Sam had so thoughtfully been sucking on. This caused the baby to whimper, despondent. Dean had come to the rescue, demanding that the boy give it back. When the child had refused to comply, Dean had firmly shoved him down on his ass and refused to apologize.

John ran a hand through his hair and accepted Leslie's sympathetic look somewhat ruefully. Since Sam seemed fascinated with Leslie's earrings, John left him in her capable hands while he went to deal with his trouble maker.

"Dean." He called the boy over, taking a seat in the only regular sized chair in the room so they would be at eye level. Dean readily abandoned the corner where he was being punished and approached his father with apprehension. John looked at him seriously. There were a million things he could say, beginning with G_ood boy, don't you let the world screw you over. Fight it, son. _Or maybe _thanks for looking out for Sammy, what would we do without you? _Hmm… Mary's patented _NO HITTING_ came to mind. _Can't you see I'm exhausted, boy? I don't know what the hell I'm doing. _

Dean's eyes were on his shoes. He glanced up at John nervously.

"Dean," John started. "What did I tell you when I dropped you off this morning?"

Dean knew all the answers to that question were wrong, but he mumbled sorrowfully, "Be good."

"That's right," John said evenly. "I said, be good and mind Miss Leslie, didn't I?"

"Yes." Dean's voice was small.

"And did you?"

"Well..." Dean's voice trailed off pleadingly. John's face was impassive.

"Dean, I want you to go apologize to that boy, like Miss Leslie asked you to. And then to Miss Leslie for giving her lip."

"But Dad…" John didn't like the sound of that one bit. Was his boy talking back?

"Dean!" He reprimanded sharply.

Dean's face clouded stubbornly. "He was being mean to Sammy," the boy muttered staunchly.

"Dean. Hold out your hand." The boy looked up at him, eyes brimming.

"But Dad," He whispered.

"Dean." John didn't waver. The little boy held up his trembling hand, palm down. John slapped the hand, quickly and sharply. Dean whimpered. "Young man, when I tell you to do something, all I want to hear is _yes, sir. _Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Dean said, through the tears. "I'm sorry," he whispered desperately. John couldn't take the despair in his son's eyes. The boy looked like his world had come crashing down around him. _You _are_ his world, John_. It came to him in Mary's voice and he felt like he had failed his family yet again.

"Hey," John said gently, running a comforting hand through his son's hair. With this invitation, Dean scrambled quickly onto John's lap, burying his face in his Dad's shoulder. John felt a surge of love for this tiny little man. What a terrible responsibility was his heavy little bundle of emotion and heat. He held Dean tightly for a moment longer, felt the boy calm in his arms.

"Ready?" He asked as Dean quickly wiped away the tears. Dean nodded, taking his father's hand as they went through the door.

Under John's watchful eye, Dean apologized to Danny, albeit grudgingly. Leslie made sure the apology was accepted. Once Leslie had transferred a squirmy Sammy to his father, John used his free hand to nudge Dean forward.

"Miss Leslie," Dean started.

Leslie leaned down so she was looking Dean straight in the eye. "Yes, Dean," she said.

"I'm sorry I gave you lip 'n didn't mind when you said to say sorry."

Leslie smiled. _God, this kid is cute, _she thought as she ruffled his hair. "You are forgiven," She said, kindly. Dean smiled back and hugged his dad's leg shyly.

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Sam's frustration with the high chair finally developed into a distressed sob, causing John to put down his paper and remove the safety restraints. Amazing how sticky the boy could get when they were just eating banana and cheerios. Sitting contentedly in his father's lap, Sam offered a John a slimy mess with one chubby fist. 

"'Nana?" Questioned the nine month old.

"No, thank you." John said, amused.

Dean leaned forward to look at Sam, narrowly missing his cereal bowl with his elbows. John quickly moved it out of the way.

"Can you say banana, Sammy? Bah- na- na." Dean prompted excitedly.

"Na- na- na" Sam enunciated dutifully.

John laughed and kissed the baby's head. He smelled like bananas.

He cleaned the boys up and got them ready for daycare. He was going to need a babysitter for tonight.

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Author's note: A bit scategorical, but I pretty much wrote it stream of consciousness. Hope you like. Please Review! 


	6. Bravery

**Raised Like Warriors**

**Part VI. Bravery**

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**_Dean:_**_See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happen to my mom, and I was scared, too. I didn't feel like talking, just like you. But see, my mom—I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day. And I do my best to be brave._

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_February 1, 1984_

"So, Leslie. I was wondering if you had plans tonight."

The young woman blushed crimson. "John. I don't know," She responded awkwardly, looking the young single father up and down. He was certainly a looker, but there was an intensity about him that made her wary.

John realized how his question had come out and felt his own color rising. "No. Sorry. I meant to baby-sit." _I'm a married man_, he couldn't help thinking.

"Oh." Leslie laughed lightly. "Um… well, it's a little late notice, but I guess that would work."

"Great, thanks." John answered. "You have our address?"

"Yep, shouldn't be much trouble."

"Yeah. Okay, well, we'll see you later then. Around 5:30?"

Leslie nodded, smiling curiously. "That sounds fine."

John bundled the boys up and ushered them out the door, planning on grabbing an early dinner at the diner near their house. While he could whip up a mean bowl of cereal and had mastered mac and cheese, that's where his culinary expertise ended. He figured they could all use a little extra sustenance.

* * *

Dean was looking at him very seriously as he packed his gear for the trip. He sat in the ugly green chair next to John's dresser, feet dangling over the sides. Sam was pleasing himself by crawling around on the floor. John looked critically at the dusty shag and thought maybe they should get a vacuum… or something. 

The adapted marine kit was spread out neatly on the bed in his room. He was double checking spirit deterrent notes while arranging the rock salt, lighter fluid, matches and iron rounds.

"Dad, what's that?" Dean asked.

After a moment John looked up. "What's what?" He asked.

"That." Dean said, pointing at the compass on the edge of the bed.

John glanced at the clock, evaluating the time he had before he had to leave. He smiled at Dean and picked up the compass, placing it in his son's hands and showing him how to hold it steady and level. Dean concentrated fiercely, holding the tool in two hands.

"This," John said instructively, "is a compass." Dean nodded seriously, filing the information away.

"See this needle?" John asked. "It always points North." Dean didn't really get it, but John wasn't finished. He showed him how to turn the face of the compass so the needle lined up, "See, N for North, okay?"

"Okay." Dean answered.

"S is for South," John continued, pointing towards the South. "E is for East, W is for West." Dean wrinkled his brow, trying to remember everything. "So if I said, take two steps East, what would you do?" John asked.

Dean thought seriously about the question. "Is this a E?" Dean asked.

"Nope," John corrected. "That's a W. This is an E."

"Oh."

John was about to give up the lesson for the moment, when Dean pointed East. "I walk two steps that way."

"Good." John said, surprised and pleased. "Very good, Dean." He ruffled the boy's hair.

Dean grinned proudly. John felt his chest swell as he stored the compass in his bag. They may have to work a little on the alphabet, but his son was a smart kid.

Dean waited with Sammy as John slipped the gear into his trunk. When he got back into the family room, the five year old was sending his army men North and South. John smiled at the miniature offensive as he scooped up Sammy into his arms. The pair of them wandered into the kitchen where Sam watched intently while John made coffee and measured formula for the night.

"Pees?" Sammy asked. Holding out his hands for a bottle.

_How polite._ John thought, smiling, as he sat down to catch a moment with his youngest. He cradled the boy gently in his arms. Sammy sucked hungrily, eyes fixed on his father, eyes so full of trust they made John ache.

He momentarily regretted the hunt that awaited him. He didn't like to leave the boys, even with a capable babysitter. Who knew what might come for them in the night? This was the first time since the fire that he wouldn't be there to guard their sleep.

"You gonna be okay, little guy?" He asked Sam, who didn't break his gaze.

John sighed, feeling the familiar weariness catching up to him. Letting Sam hold the bottle momentarily, he poured himself a cup of coffee with his free hand.

They were half done with their beverages when Dean came trooping in. He sat down across from John, placing his head in his hands and giving his father an unreadable expression. _What's this about? _John wondered.

"Daddy?"

_Uh oh, this must be serious, _thought John. Dean rarely called him Daddy anymore. It usually indicated that the boy was afraid or in pain.

"What's up, buddy?" John asked, concerned.

"Are you going _away?_" The voice went up slightly in panic.

"Just for tonight, Dean." John tried to be reassuring, but felt like he was in over his head with this one. Dean was as understanding as you could expect from a five-year-old, but John knew that Mary's death had shaken his little boy to his very core. "I'll be back when you wake up. And Leslie's gonna be here."

"I don't _like_ Leslie." Dean grumbled.

"You liked her just fine this morning," John said, exasperated. There was an element of warning in his tone when he added, "I don't want to hear of you giving her any trouble."

Dean subsided with a sigh. "Yes, sir," he complied.

The boy didn't say anything for a while. When he looked up again, it was with much too serious eyes. "Are you going to kill the bad thing?" He asked in a hushed voice.

John felt momentarily unable to breathe. His heart responded by beating more quickly. _Oh, baby boy, _he thought, _where did your childhood go?_ He had made no effort to hide his mission from Dean, knew the boy had been listening at Elkins' and with Missouri, too. For the first time he questioned that decision. The world was a darker, scarier place to raise his children then he had ever imagined. It scared the shit out of _him_. He could only imagine what it was doing to his five-year-old.

"Dean," John said desperately. "I'm looking for the thing that killed your mother. I'm gonna find it, I promise you."

"And you're going to kill it?" Dean prompted, steely eyed.

"That's right, buddy," John said, nodding. "And tonight I'm going to hunt another bad thing. A spirit, it's been hurting people."

"Did it kill them?" Dean asked.

John was a little taken aback at where this conversation was heading, but he didn't look away when he said "Yeah, Dean, it did."

"Is it gonna kill _you_?" This was said in a frightened whisper.

"No." John's voice was firm. "Not on your life," he said, smiling to reassure the boy. When Dean didn't look convinced, he rumbled "Get over here." He made room on his lap for both his sons, putting Sammy in Dean's arms while he held the little boy. "It would take something a lot scarier than _this _to take out your old man."

Dean considered this seriously, then nodded. "Okay, Dad," He said bravely.

_That's my boy, _John thought smiling, _That's my brave little boy_. He kissed the side of Dean's head. "Are you gonna take care of Sammy while I'm gone?" he asked playfully.

Dean nodded, smiling at that and hugging his baby brother close.Sam took this as his cue to reenter the conversation and said clearly and emphatically, "Dean!" causing his brother and father to grin proudly.

"He said my name!" Dean exclaimed, excited.

"Yeah, he did." John agreed.

* * *

Before Leslie arrived, John scratched a protective rune in the door and salted the entrances to the house. He wasn't taking any chances, even if it meant a couple of weird looks from the babysitter. 

"What's this?" Leslie asked, stepping carefully over the the salt ring.

"It protects against spirits!" Dean supplied helpfully.

Leslie smiled at him. "Well, I guess we're all set then," she said, amused. John smiled and shrugged, letting the five-year-old shoulder the blame for their eccentricity.

* * *

Author's note: You guys write such sweet reviews! Technical problems have prevented me from responding personally, but I hope to do that soon. Thanks so much for reading. Another rambling chapter. It was supposed to be about John's first hunt, but I guess I was having trouble leaving the boys for the chapter. I'm an overprotective writer like that. Stay tuned for: John's split with Elkins and Dean beginning weapon's training. Anyone got other suggestions on what they would want to hear about? 


	7. Down that Path

**Raised Like Warriors**

**Part VII. Down that Path **

* * *

_**Dean: **You know what's out there!  
**Sam:** Yeah I know but still-- the way we grew up after mom was killed, and dad's obsession to find the thing that killed her, but we still haven't found the damn thing, so we kill everything we can find. _

* * *

_February 1, 1984_

The graveyard dirt was heavy and damp. John felt his muscles strain, pleasantly warm, beginning to tire. Sweat soaked through his shirt as he strained to empty the grave. He and Elkins worked in shifts, one keeping watch while the other shoveled. They maintained a companionable silence. The moon was at a quarter phase, casting barely a sliver of light on the two hunters. They were doing Harriet first, figuring that it she was the one responsible for the revenge killings. There was a ghost sighting in '89 which seemed to match the description of Charles Parker's wandering spirit, so Elkins thought that if they had time they would do his corpse, too.

Funny how logical it all sounded. John grinned grimly to himself. He had just snuck into a graveyard, was digging up a dead body. If he was caught, they would take away his children. They might put him in jail. His investigation would be cut short. _Well, don't get caught,_ he thought to himself. It just wasn't an option.

Not much intimidated John Winchester. He had a reputation in the marines for being deadly effective. His tactics may have been unconventional; John never backed down when he thought he was right, which was most of the time, actually. He had been good at giving orders, not so much at taking them. But he earned the respect of even his biggest critics by getting results.

John had reread the newspapers surrounding the incident in 1929. Harriet Yates, born in Denver. Engagement to Charles Parker was announced in the fall. Wedding was set for May 11th. Charlie was killed on the 10th. _God damn fool_, John thought. He had little sympathy for weak willed idiots like him. He and Mary had been married in May. The 31st. Been married a year and a half when Dean was born. Funny how you never know how good you have it until everything you love is ripped away.

These kinds of thoughts led down a dangerous path, so John focused on the feel of the shovel in his hands, friction making his hands hot and oozy. He wasn't calloused like Elkins. Yet, anyway.

He flexed the sore fingers. Elkins, taking that as his cue to do another round, lowered himself into the considerable sized hole. John watched the shadows, ready for any possible threat. Pulling himself to the top of the mound, he kept watch. He stayed loose, shifting rhythmically and silently to keep his muscles from cramping up. Who knew when their lives might depend on his quick reaction time.

There was a sudden drop in temperature and the EMF detector Elkins had brought started beeping harshly. Daniel swore.

"Keep digging," John said, his voice steady. I'll take care of it."

The EMF indicated that the presence was concentrated to the north, John focused his attention there, but at first there was nothing to see. Suddenly he was accosted by a gust of unnaturally strong wind, debris from the graveyard bowling into his face and eyes and clouding his vision. He caught a glimpse of her as his eyes blinked away the dirt. Ghostly white and terrible, she screamed in anger.

John raised his shot gun, taking aim.

"No!" Elkins yelled, struggling to be heard above the gale and the terrible wail. "You'll bring the cops down on us!"

Most men would have wavered before engaging a ghost in intimate combat, but John wasn't like most men. He seized the iron rod and approached her slowly, determinedly. With each step the night grew colder. The ghost sucked the heat from the air, so that John could see his breath condense in the air in front of him with each breath. He tightened his grip around the poker. A shudder of reality brought the ghost close enough to lay her icy, transparent hand on John's cheek. He gasped as she sucked his life force. His skin became cold and his knees weakened as if from loss of blood.

"John!" yelled Elkins.

John ignored the pain, grunting with effort as he raised the iron rod and swung it hard through spirit's translucent body. There was no resistance, like he had swung through air, but the spirit disappeared, howling.

"She'll be back. Give me a hand with this." Elkins yelled.

John stumbled as he tried to move his heavy feet, but soon regained his balance. Elkins hit the coffin a moment later, but it took a little work to break through the heavy lid. John thought he was prepared for the sight that lay before them, but couldn't help the chill that worked its way up his spine at the sight of the decomposed body. It seemed so naked before them, bare bones gleaming. Elkins didn't react, used to this kind of thing. He pressed the salt into John's hand while he doused the coffin with lighter fluid. John did his job, shaking off the numbness and bringing life back to his chilled body. They stepped back and Elkin's tossed in a match. There was a sudden heat and John stared into the fire, watched it purify the bones, sever the link that held the spirit in this world.

The two men didn't say anything more, just gathered their things while the fire raged, then when it died of its own accord they covered it with the displaced earth. _Ashes to ashes, _John thought. _Sometimes I guess we need a little help getting there, though. _

They moved on to Charlie's grave next. Half- way though his spirit came to watch, but did so listlessly from afar. He didn't give them any trouble and when they lit his bones, he dissipated like smoke.

* * *

Elkin's grinned and offered to buy John a beer once they had slammed closed the trunk of the impala on the shovels and supplies. John was tempted to comply, but remembered he had a babysitter waiting for him at home. He swallowed panic as his imagination momentarily went wild, filling his head with all the gruesome things that might have happened while he left his family exposed. No emotion showed on his face, but he declined Daniel's invitation, promising that there would be other nights. 

Driving home in the dark, John's eyes were trained on the highway in front of him but his mind was roving even further abroad. He wondered what Mary would think of him, smelling like smoke and caked in mud. He would be a stranger to her. _Where would this path lead him?_ He asked, uncertainly._ Nowhere good, that's for sure. _But there weren't any other paths, only darkness to his right and to his left.

* * *

It was 12:30 when he pulled into the driveway of the rented house, which looked tired in the darkness. Before he entered, John changed his shirt and kicked a little mud from his boots, hoping to appear a little less of a shady character. He walked in, finding Leslie there, reading a book. She looked up and he was struck by how alive she seemed. For a moment he couldn't help hating her for it. Why did she live when so many others died? When he was dead inside and there was no help for him except through these terrible midnight jobs. 

"How were they?" He asked, burying his inappropriate emotions.

"Like angels." Leslie replied, smiling. "They were great. Dean drew you a picture. I taped it to the fridge."

"Thanks for doing this," John said, writing her a check and dismissing her as soon as possible.

He found himself standing at the doorway to the boys' room. The sight of Dean, lying there, looking so young but being older than Mary had ever known him, was tonight like a lance through the heart. _Sammy, _John thought, _you poor little kid. I'm all you've got… and I'm nothing without her. _

He moved away from them, knowing that Dean didn't like the smell of smoke. Instead he went down to the kitchen. He stared blindly at the crayon figures that had taken up residence on the dingy fridge. They were labeled: Mom, Dad, Sammy and Dean. Carefully, very carefully, he took the picture down. He walked into his bedroom and pulled all the laundry from his dresser drawer. He lay the picture down, looking heartbrokenly at the stick legs. Then he buried the family under his clothes.

Leaving them to rest in peace, John took a bottle of tequila from the kitchen and drank himself to sleep.

* * *

Author's note: Okay, that was more depressing than I intended, but I really meant to do some analysis of John as a character and we all know that this is a demon he will struggle with for the rest of his life. Dean and Sam centered stories to follow, but I wanted to go in order. Please review! 


	8. Responsbility

**Raised Like Warriors**

**Part VIII. Responsibility **

* * *

_**Dean: **Look, here's the thing. When we were young, I pretty much pulled him from a fire. And ever since then, I've felt responsible for him. Like it's my job to keep him safe._

* * *

_March 13, 1984_

Dean woke from a dream of fire and shouting. His eyes flew open and he trembled in the dark room. Dad said not to yell, unless he was being attacked (it was better to be quiet so the monsters wouldn't be able to hear you), so Dean clamped his lips tightly shut and scooted out of bed. He armed himself with the squirt gun full of holy water Dad had left by the side of the bed, wanting nothing more than to run for Dad's room. The shadows by the windows swayed ominously, making the five year olds heart beat fast. He paused, irresolute.

Sammy slept unaware in the crib just opposite his bed. Dean couldn't leave his little brother alone with the monsters!

Stealthily, trying to swallow his panic, Dean reached out a hand for the light. Trembling, Dean trained the holy water pistol on the most suspicious looking shadows in the room. He didn't lower the weapon, even when the sudden light revealed that it was nothing but his own coat, flung the day before over chair in the corner.

Dean froze, still frightened, and jumped when Sam woke with an annoyed cry at the light shining in his eyes. Dean was about to lower his weapon and run for Dad when the lights in the room started to flicker. Gasping, Dean tensed again.

There was nothing for him to point his weapon at, but knew that this was a bad sign and hollered "DAD!"

John, waking with a start, was out of bed in a moment, shot gun in hand. Panic seized him and he ran, heart in throat, to the boys´ room.

"DEAN!" He yelled, wrenching on the knob. The door refused to budge.

"DADDY!" Dean yelled back, panic-stricken.

"STAND BACK FROM THE DOOR!" John screamed, adrenaline pulsing through his veins.

Dean stumbled backward as John's boot connected with the heavy door.

"GET YOUR BROTHER" John ordered, a second kick splintering the door jam.

The five year old scrambled to the crib, pulling Sammy awkwardly into his arms, dropping the squirt gun in the process. The baby screamed in terror. Dean turned, about to make a run for it, but the boy was rooted in place, shocked by the unearthly sight which appeared in front of him, blocking the boys´ only escape route.

It was a ghost, but not like in the movies. This one was real, its long hair unnatural illuminated and its being flickering as the room crackled with surreal energy. Her translucent fingers reached out and with a sob, Dean realized that she wanted Sammy. "NO!" he screamed instinctually.

Sammy was squirming so hard Dean could hardly keep a grip on him, but he held on protectively, shielding the baby with his body. Anger swelled in his breast _why can't they just leave us alone? _he wondered as he backed up against the wall. "GET OUT OF HERE," he yelled.

A loud crack signaled John's arrival to the scene and there was no hesitation. John raised the iron barrel of the shot gun and swung it through the ghost's side. The women disappeared, screaming.

Dean ran, sobbing, to his father as soon as the apparition disappeared. John scooped up the boys, still holding the shot gun in one hand. He whispered "I've got you," into the Dean's ear, but the man's tense body told Dean that the fight wasn't over. The five year old allowed himself to be set down. He held tightly on to Sam. The boys watched silently as John searched the room briefly, but thoroughly.

Tired though he was, Dean obeyed without question when Dad led them out to the car. Listened intently as John called up Elkins, saying that they were on their way out to the cabin.

"Daddy?" The five year old finally asked, "Why did she want to hurt Sam?"

John, looking fixedly at the road, didn't answer right away. When he finally looked at Dean, what the boy saw in his father's eyes scared him. "Dean," John started in a tone that was deadly serious, "you know I've been looking for the bad thing that killed your mother."

Dean nodded, shrinking back.

"Well, buddy, there's lots of other stuff out there too, bad things that I didn't know about. That was a ghost. Do you know what that is?"

Dean shook his head.

"Well, you remember when talked about what happens when you… when a_ person_ dies?" John asked, stumbling a little over the explanation.

Dean nodded again. "If you're good, you go to heaven," Dean offered, looking for reassurance.

John nodded, searching for the words. "Yep, well, sometimes, when a person dies, their spirits hold on, hold on real tight, to their… um… body here in this world."

"How come?" Dean asked, eyes widening in horror.

"Um… well, because they're real mad or real scared when they die. So mad that they don't want to let go, they have something that they have to do. Like unfinished business, I guess." John answered lamely.

Dean absorbed that as best he could. "But Dad?" he asked after a minute. "Why did she want to hurt _Sammy_?" There was outrage in the boy´s voice.

"_IT_ was confused, Dean. It thought that Sam was its baby." John answered as vaguely as possible.

"Well, he's not" Dean said resolutely. "Sam's _our _baby."

"That's right, Dean. He's our baby and we've got to protect him." John said, rubbing cold sweat from the back of his neck as his increased his speed.

Daniel was already up when the Winchesters arrived. John was too nervous to let the boys out of his sight so they stayed in the car while John and Elkins looked for the unmarked grave they had disturbed a couple of days earlier, the one that held the body of a woman who had killed her baby and then herself twenty years ago.

Dean sat in the car, wide awake. He gripped the box of rock salt John had pressed into his hand after completing the protective circle around the boys. Dad had said that he would take care of the bad thing, the ghost, so that it wouldn't hurt them anymore, but the five year old stayed awake just to be sure. Beside him, Sam slept a little fitfully. Dean reached out a hand to sooth his little brother.

"It's okay, Sam," He whispered, keeping a sharp eye on the darkness that surrounded the car. "I won't let anything bad happen to you."

* * *

Author's note: Sorry about all the spelling mistakes in the last chapter. Here's the newest installment and I hope it reads a little easier. Still getting used to Spanish keyboards, I'm afraid. Thanks so much for reviewing! I look forward to hearing what you think. 


	9. Big Day

**Raised Like Warriors**

**Part IX. Big Day**

* * *

_**Guenther**__: "Well, he was a stubborn bastard, I remember that. And, uh, whatever the game, he hated to lose, you know, it was that old marine thing. But, uh, boy, he sure loved Mary. And he doted on those kids."_

* * *

_May 2, 1984_

John started awake when a strange sound came from the kitchen. His watch read 6:30. Birds outside were making a pre-dawn ruckus. John quickly got his scattered thoughts, reaching for a throwing knife he had started carrying in his boot. He'd spent the last night sorting through a dense volume Elkins hug up on elementals. A few incomprehensible notes in his journal marked the point when he had dozed off. There was something odd about the translation which was troubling him. It would probably be better to track down the original, or at least a previous copy. Not that John's Latin was all that good, but he was learning.

John pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind as he cautiously entered the kitchen. He silently moved passed the threshold. At first he didn't see anything. He reached out a hand for the switch and snapped on the florescent light.

The father forced himself to relax when Dean's head popped up from where he was digging in the cupboard for something. John quickly slipped his knife back into its hiding place, changing gears as quickly as he could.

"Hi dad." Dean said, uncertainly.

"Dean, what are you doing?" John asked, looking mournfully at his watch.

"Is it morning?" Dean asked, glancing out the window where the sun was slowly rising about the horizon.

"Almost," said John, smiling. "Why? You got a big day planned?"

Dean grinned as John's good humor returned, only slightly forced. He made room for John to get to the coffee maker.

"I'm making a cake!" he said excitedly.

"You are?" John replied with exaggerated enthusiasm as comprehension dawned. "For Sammy?"

"It's his birthday," said Dean knowledgably.

John nodded in agreement, internally cracking up at Dean´s seriousness. On an impulse he scooped the five year old up in his arms and tickled him, eliciting the giggle that served to remind father and son that Dean was still 5, not quite the 40 he sometimes strove for. As the spasms subsided, Dean´s small form melted against John´s shoulder and the father was rewarded for the attack with a big hug, the kind that the young father had forgotten he needed once in a while. John squeezed back, trying to hold onto the feeling of warmth that the boy had brought to he heart. He kissed the boy´s short hair and released him. Dean scrambled up on a stool and looked across the kitchen counter at his father.

"Well, buddy, cake isn't really a breakfast food." _Besides we don´t have the ingredients. _

Dean´s face fell.

"How do you think the birthday boy would feel about some pancakes?" John asked and smiled when the grin returned.

"With chocolate chips?" Dean asked, enthusiasm skyrocketing once again.

"You bet." John agreed, eyes twinkling. "But Dean..."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, sobering.

"I don´t want you to wake up Sam till he´s really ready, okay?" The five year old had a tendency to let his enthusiasm get the better of him.

"Yeah, else he´ll be crabby, huh?" Dean agreed.

"Yep." John said, letting his gaze fall on the pile of dishes in the sink and his thoughts turn to pancake recipes. "You want to go watch cartoons while I take a shower?" John prompted.

Dean nodded, the relief of having birthday celebration taken off his already over burdened shoulders showing in his relaxed demeanor. John watches as the boy padded over to the television. Dean turned it on and when prompted, turned down the sound. John knew the five year old was just humoring him, the TV could only hold his attention for 30 minutes or less, so John quickly ducked into the shower. He let the hot water melt away the stiffness in his abused muscles, let his tired mind adjust to the prospect of another day. He was suddenly sick of thinking about demons and ghosts, ached with the guilt of six months without results and frustration that his prey still eluded him. The thoughts jumbled a bit and mixed with dark emotions, but John refused to give into them.

Today his baby was turning one year old. One year ago he had been the happiest man in the world. John could still remember the stale hospital air, the first sight of his son, red and squirming. He had shared his baby´s first breath, unaware that he had been holding it. Mary´s hair had been damp with sweat, eyes gleaming with emotion when she had held their son for the first time. Sam had warmed to them slowly, opening his eys to look distrustfully at the world. Dean had been ecstatic at first, but soon an interrupted night´s sleep caught up with him and he snuggled up next to his mother and baby brother. John, proud father, had taken tons of pictures, but that was the one he treasured most. That room, so full. That time, when John had been something more.

John shook off the melancholy and turned his back on the gaping wounds that surfaced with each memory. He turned his attention to practical matters like shaving and laundry and pancakes. It was a Saturday morning, clear skies promised warmth. John decided to take the kids to the zoo. They hadn't been since Mary died-- Actually, Sam had never been, thought John as he emerged from the bathroom.

He quickly dressed and was down in the kitchen when his sharp ears picked up a wail from Sam's room. Drying his hands, John took the stairs two at a time, realizing he was as impatient as Dean to see the one year old. Opening the nursery door, John was heartened when Sam's wails subsided at the sight of his father. Sam had maneuvered so he was pulling himself up on the bars of the crib. Little arms went up in a demand to be liberated, causing the precarious balance to be lost. John scooped the baby up, smiling proudly down at his son.

"Da Da." Sam said by way of greeting.

"Hey there, buddy." Cooed John, smiling down at the one year old. Sam's curious eyes took in the morning light skeptically. Sam was slow to wake up, preferring to snuggle with his father or Dean while he took stock of the day and sucked down some warm milk. John rubbed the sleep sweat from the baby's head and changed him into clean diapers and clothes before wrapping the boy in a blanket and carrying him down stairs. Sam's tiny hands clung appreciatively to John's collar and he nestled sleepily into his father's arms.

_This is it, _though John as he warmed milk for Sam, _this is the reason that life is still worth living. _While the microwave whined, he rinsed a top for the bottle, giving it to Sam to hold while they waited.

"Look, Da Da" Sam demanded, holding out the top for John's inspection.

"Yeah." John agreed. "Dean," he called, "do you want milk or juice?"

"Juice," Dean called back.

John made up a sippy cup of orange juice for Dean, watering it down a little and noting that they were running low. He poured a cup of coffee for himself and headed out to the living room with Sam, who was already sucking hungrily on the bottle. Dean made room on the couch and snuggled up close to John's side. He kissed Sam on the forehead, saying excitedly, "Happy Birthday Sam"

"Dean!" Exclaimed Sam cheerfully, returning with a slobbery kiss of his own, which Dean wiped away theatrically. The three Winchesters settled in to watch X-men and afterwards John made pancakes which weren't half bad, especially when drenched in syrup and topped with chocolate chips.

When the syrup was wiped away to avoid ant infestation, jackets were collected and the boys were strapped into the car. Sam gurgled happily, chattering to himself all the way to the zoo. Dean's excitement was evident as he tried to prepare his young, inexperienced brother for the wonders that awaited them.

John picked up a disposable camera at the gift shop, gifting the baby with a sunhat and a stuffed tiger while he was at it. Dean got a t-shirt for being so patient. John was a little confused about why there was a dinosaur on it, made sure that Dean was aware that those animals were extinct but couldn't deny the excited look on Dean's face. John played the proud father for a day, trying not to think about how much of this was compensation for his previous failures.

Both boys crashed on the way home and after a long nap and a festive bath, John took them out for dinner. Shirley, their usual waitress, served up a mean couple of plain hamburgers with ketchup, followed by chocolate cake with a candle that Dean helped Sam blow out. John took a couple more pictures and Shirley even got one of the three of them before the family slipped home, exhausted.

Before he fell asleep that night, John checked in on the boys, sleeping gustily in bed and crib. The flush of the day was on their cheeks and for once they were undisturbed by dreams or nightmares made real. John looked at Sam seriously, checking his baby for sings of growing up. He didn't know if he was up for it all again-- the potty training, walking, talking, talking-back, hunting? He was so alone with it all. And Dean would have to go to school soon, terrifying as that sounded. Strange that these beautiful, perfect children could depend on something as flawed as him, could love something as flawed as he was.

"Goodnight, Sammy." John whispered, kissing the boy's head before leaving his research for one night and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Author's note: Pretty much the obligatory birthday scene, though I decided to give John a break ´cause he really does love those kids after all. Send me a review. 


	10. Falling Out

**Raised Like Warriors**

**Part X. Falling Out**

* * *

_**Sam**: You never mentioned him to us.  
**John**: We had, uh….we had kind of a falling out. I hadn't seen him in years._

* * *

_June 8, 1984_

"What the_ hell _do you think you're doing, John," Elkins growled as he stormed into the Winchester's humble living room. He turned fierce eyes towards his partner.

John, who had been engaged in throwing the family's meager belongings into a line of disheveled looking boxes, turned angrily to face his mentor and friend.

"I'm being evicted, Daniel," he said icily.

"That's bullshit and you know it. It's just an excuse. You're going after that swamp dragon in Florida. I already told you that it's too dangerous. _Dammit_ John, you're going to get yourself killed!"

"Why don't you mind your own business, Daniel? This is none of your concern."

"That's how it's going to be?" asked Daniel, voice low. "Listen to me, John. You think I haven't _been _there? My family is _gone_. You think I don't know what it's like to want revenge? But you can't afford to be reckless, you hear me?"

"I've had enough of your fucking council, Daniel. It's been half a year and we still haven't found the thing that killed my wife. We haven't even found a trace of it! I'm not going to stick around here forever. This isn't a fucking game!"

"It took _five _years for me to track and kill the vampires that killed my family, John. And when it was over they were still gone."

"Don't lecture me about patience, Daniel," John spat out. "I'm only doing what I have to do… for Mary."

"It won't bring her back, John."

Something in John snapped and before he had time to think, he attacked. The older hunter barely reacted when John's expert kick knocked his legs out from under him in one fluid movement. He looked coldly up at the enraged widower. John's eyes were wild with grief and anger.

"You don't know anything about me or my family." John snarled.

Elkins picked himself up, keeping a wary distance. His tone was anything but apologetic. "I know those boys are better off _with_ a father."

"Leave them out of this," John's voice was raw with anguish.

"They're in this whether you want them or not," Elkins said flatly, "unless you're ready to give them up? Because that's the price of this crusade." This elicited a purely animalistic growl from John. Elkins grinned humorlessly, "That's what I thought."

"I'm trying to keep them safe." John bit out.

"And you think _this_ is going to keep them safe? It's suicidal, John."

"No, it's not," was all John said flatly, "I will not rest until the thing that killed my wife is dead, that much I promise you."

"Don't be a fool, John. Wake up before your arrogance takes away the only things you have left to lose."

"I KNOW WHAT I HAVE TO LOSE!" Screamed John, losing his temper.

"SO DO I!" Daniel rejoined, "Don't you think I would give anything, _anything_, to have my son back. You're a lucky bastard. Don't throw it all away!"

"LUCKY?" John gasped, unable to comprehend.

"YES," was all Daniel would say in reply.

"I have to pack," John growled, an obvious dismissal.

But Elkins was not intimidated. "You're making a mistake, you _fucking idiot_. You think I've spent my valuable time keeping track of your sorry ass just to have you throw it all away on some kind of idealistic suicide mission?"

John's hackles rose again at the suicide comment and he snarled, "You haven't taught me anything I couldn't have learned from a couple of old books. You're a fucking joke—living alone in that decrepit old cabin, following some kind of archaic code. I'm not your _apprentice_, old man, and I'm not your_ family_. This isn't your decision to make."

"Listen to yourself, Winchester. You've been doing this less than a year, and you already think you've got it all figured out? It's hubris and you're going to get yourself killed. Well, I'm not going to be a part of it anymore. If you do this, you do it alone."

"FINE," snarled John, though he was reeling a bit.

Daniel sucked in a shocked breath. "Then good riddance," he spit, turning towards the door. "Get the fuck out of this town and don't come back. Don't expect me to come to the funeral." With that Elkins slammed the door, leaving John alone with his dark thoughts.

John stood for a moment, taunt with emotion. But he wasn't the type to back down from a challenge. He would go to Florida, kill the son of a bitch that was terrorizing an entire fucking town, and when he was done he and his sons would keep moving, keep hunting until they found the sorry bastard who had turned John into… _this._

He let anger and bitterness well up to block the pain of losing the man who had taught him everything he knew about hunting. He would have to be twice as sharp, twice as good. He would survive.

_That'll show him_, John thought with grim humor.

* * *

Author's note: This is my rendition of what happened between Daniel and John, which, you will notice, is not that different from what happened between Sam and John 18 years later. Kind of a neat little cycle, don´t ya think? PLEASE review! 


	11. The Safe Place

**Raised Like Warriors**

**Part XI. The Safe Place  
**

* * *

_**Pastor Jim**: This is hallowed ground. _

* * *

_August 3, 1984_

_This is no ordinary Minnesota lighting show, _thought Jim to himself as he stood up from his desk, the electricity surging through the humid air making him cautious. He went to the window, looking out at the angry sky. The man was no psychic, but something about this night wasn't sitting right with him. The EMF meter buzzed in confusion, Jim glanced at the erratic readings before he turned the thing off. Carefully returning the tome he had been translating to its place on the shelf, Jim quickly collected a few supplies—books, medallions, holy water and, after a thought, he concealed a sacred dagger beneath his clerical garb. He closed the shutters to his office windows, checking the perimeter of salt. An orphan of the supernatural, Jim knew the price of sloppiness and wasn't about to take any chances.

Jim came from a long line of Pastors, a select order. Paladins, they used to be called, before their duties also involved Christmas Pageants and Parish Councils. He had been trained in the ancient, secret traditions of the church. He had accepted his assignment with open eyes and, ever since he had taken his vows, fought with mind, body and spirit against the forces of evil in all of their varied and horrible forms.

Climbing the stairs to the church, Jim paused at the threshold, feeling the stillness of the sacred place at war with the malevolent wind that was sweeping in from some unknown source. Jim, with a practiced hand, opened his notes to the correct page and proceeded to reinforce the seals on the sacred grounds. He made the rounds slowly, carefully, and then ritualistically focused on the altar. With each gesture and blessing, Jim re-forged the ancient bonds of this place with the past. He could feel the presence of his predecessors as his hands retraced theirs, making the correct motions, signifying humility before God, resistance of temptation, deliverance from evil, courage before the fires of Hell…

It was as he spoke these last words, the Latin ringing in the empty space, that the doors of the church burst open, letting in the angry winds. The church's electrical light flickered angrily, confirming John's suspicions about the supernatural origin of the storm. Jim's eyes snapped forward alertly as the candles flickered angrily in the sudden darkness. His voice didn't falter as he took in the curious sight of the man and child who were together struggling to close the heavy doors. Jim knew that evil would not have made it past the threshold, but the family's (he now saw there were three, not two) ominous arrival was not lost on Jim.

Silence fell as Jim finished steadily, dispelling the remnants of evil that withered and died in the church's dusty interior. He felt the strangers´ eyes upon him, the father and his too-old children. Even the toddler was solemn as he clung desperately to his father's shoulder, eyes wide.

Receiving a nod from his father, the boy, who couldn't be more than six, set down his heavy burden and sat down in a chair in the back of the church with an audible sigh, legs swinging as his eyes took in the church's interior. Soon his eyes returned curiously to Jim, who was now fully illuminated as the electric lights calmed.

Jim cautiously approached the trio, knowing that they were spooked and wanting to portray a friendly demeanor. Often times Jim sheltered the misfortunate refugees of the supernatural, whose instincts brought them here, to this place of security, without really knowing why or even what they were fleeing.

The demeanor of this man, however, bespoke a terrible knowledge that was all too recognizable. And the children? They were all too aware, though now, in the quiet of the church, life returned to the pale faced toddler and he squirmed in his father's arms, wanting to explore this new space, which had an air about it that he had never felt in all of his young life. The man held the boy firmly, ignoring the disapproving tone that entered the baby's nonsensical babble.

"Down," pleaded Sam, trying out the word of the week.

"Hush." John ordered without taking his eyes off Jim.

Suddenly, Jim knew who this man was. _Winchester_. The man had worked with Daniel Elkins before taking off. News traveled fast among his brotherhood and their various contacts, their few _friends_. Last that had been heard of John, the grief crazed widower with two young boys, he had been recklessly freelancing. Jim tried to remember what he had heard about this man. _Ex-marine? _That he could believe from the man's military stance.

But what drew Jim's attention was not just the protective fierceness of the man's stance, but the two young cubs he was protecting. Dean stood up, but stayed close behind his father, waiting for John to pass judgment. The boys had been little more than a footnote in the tall tales of this young hunter, but now that they stood before him, Jim could see that here was something that rarely entered his solitary world. _A family_. For better or worse.

Perhaps it was exhaustion, but John showed less of his usual reserve when he turned to the pastor. "Is it safe?" He asked rawly.

"This is a safe place," Jim answered, "but I wouldn't venture out into the storm tonight if I were you."

John didn't say anything, but he took a bottle of water from the bag, giving it to Sam first, then Dean, before drinking deeply. The sedentary peace of the holy place, stronger than most because of Jim's conscientious upkeep, was evident even to John, who was not a regular church goer and whose faith had been shattered along with everything else with the death of his wife. Despite himself, John began to relax and even freed his squirming son, signaling with a look for Dean to keep his brother close. He internally prepared himself for a siege of sorts, keeping an eye on the Pastor, who despite his kind eyes and gentle manner, was still a stranger.

The two hunters fell back on old rituals, exchanging firm handshakes, names, half truths. Dean soon lost interest and wandered off after his curious younger brother to explore the chapel.

"What dat?" Demanded Sam time and time again, pointing at hymnals, alters, statues, pews, carpets, stained glass, and vaguely indicating the world at large. Dean did his best to explain, though it was foreign territory for him as well. More often than not he would look at the strange object and shrug, quickly distracting Sam before the curious boy could make a fuss over it. Sam had a tendency to obsess a little, his curiosity drawing him to touch, smell and taste everything he could get his drooly little mouth around. Most of Dean's job as older brother was to keep Sam from eating the furniture, or that's what Dad said.

Sam could walk now, though it took all his concentration and he preferred to wrap his little hand around one of his father's fingers or use his brother as a crutch. He cried less now and was beginning to show signs of stubbornness, insisting "ME!" when he wanted to try and do it himself, which was a lot. Quite precocious, he got his first time-out a week ago when he threw a tantrum because John wouldn't let him scale the toilet in the bathroom of the hotel room where they were staying.

Hunger soon brought the boys back to their father, who had arranged with Jim to stay the night in the rectory. The two hunters were discussing the origin of the storm, which John believed was caused by the malevolent energy released when the poltergeist he had been hunting was finally put to rest. Jim spook animatedly about the supernatural theories, John listening thoughtfully as he scooped up his toddler, who was leaning against his father's legs, indicating his desire to be picked up.

Dean looked shyly at the pastor, shook his hand when Jim offered. "Hello, Sir."

"Pastor Jim," Pastor Jim corrected.

* * *

Author's note: Thought it was time to bring in Pastor Jim! Hope it makes sense for you and there are lots more stories to come, just gotta write them! 


	12. New Friend

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XII. New Friend **

* * *

_**Sammy:** When's Dad gonna get back?  
**Dean: **Tomorrow.  
**Sammy:** When?  
**Dean: **I don't know. He usually comes in late, though. __Now, eat your dinner. _

* * *

_August 16, 1984_

John had a right to be tired after more than two months on the road, trying to take care of the boys while at the same time seized with an irritable compulsion that drove him to read the supernatural into every newspaper article, he rarely went a day without getting a sense of the supernatural at work and, once revealed, he was driven to follow it to its source. For better or worse he had traced the hidden network of the supernatural community. The human side: psychics, sorcerers, hermits, hunters, priests and clergy… and the darker materials, inhuman and terrifying: werewolves, black dogs, spirits, poltergeists, zombies, necromancy. With the boys so young, John was torn in every town, trying to decide how much to involve them. He found babysitters, even deigned to visit his relatives in Kansas once or twice when he couldn't bring himself to trust these faceless strangers with the only bright spot in his dark world. John saw the fatigue of this life wearing on his children, the tired reflection of his own haunted features stared back at him. Like a caged animal he raged against it, but John knew they couldn't keep going like this, that Dean would have to go to school in the fall.

The unexpected refuge offered by the Pastor came as a surprise, but John had been beaten down enough that his pride only made a slight fuss before he accepted gratefully. That night John tucked in two clean, exhausted boys into a crisp, large guest bed on the first floor of Jim's house. For once he took the time to read them a story—Jack in the Bean stock from Jim's collection of fairy tales. Sam climbed onto his lap while Dean curled up beside them, already half asleep.

"De END" Sam repeated with satisfaction when John had finished.

"Bed time," whispered John gently, neatly tucking in his little squirmer, hoping Sam wouldn't keep Dean up tonight or wake his older brother too early. The little boy needed sleep.

"NIGHT, Da Da," declared Sam, returning John's good night kiss.

"Good Night, Sammy" John murmured, moving on to tuck Dean in.

As he moved to the door, Dean called him sleepily.

"Yep?"

"Sammy likes you to leave a light on."

John watched as the toddler snuggled up to his older brother, who after some adjustments got comfortable as well. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam as if the boy was a teddy bear and Sammy closed his eyes immediately. Seemed like the only thing Sam needed was his older brother, but John left the door open a crack, the light from the hall spilling in. Moving down the carpeted corridor, John listened to the stillness of the stranger's house. Jim sat reading in the front room, keeping watch.

Something in John told him he could trust this man, who was a holy man and a warrior as well. A months worth of sleep deprivation caught up with him and he soon slipped into the twin bed provided by the thoughtful Pastor, and dreaming intermittently, slept deep into the morning.

* * *

As predicted, Sam was the first of the Winchesters to stir the following morning. He was hungry and wet, but the little boy was used to waking up in strange places. He looked at his brother beside him, reassured by the sight. But when Sam poked Dean experimentally, his older brother pushed the little hand away and buried his face in the pillow. 

"GO away, Sammy," he whined, retreating into sleep once more.

Sam gave him a displeased look, but when it elicited no response he scooted over to the side of the bed and very carefully toppled over the edge. The soft carpet broke his fall and after a moment's hesitation Sam realized he wasn't hurt and thus used the blankets hanging down the side of the bed to pull himself to his feet. The door was still open, which was fortunate because Sam wasn't tall enough to handle latches at this point.

Steeling himself, the toddler set off in search of his father. Light was coming from the doorway down the hall, along with sounds of movement. Sam meandered in that direction.

There was a man in the small, bright kitchen which Sam took to be his father—in his defense the the odds were in his favor. Almost all of the men in Sam´s life were his father.

"Da!" Sam greeted. Pastor Jim looked over his shoulder at the toddler.

"Hello there." He said, a little uncertainly. Jim had little experience with children.

Hearing a voice that was NOT John's, Sam shrunk back distrustfully, peeking at the stranger from behind the door frame.

"Da da?" Sam demanded, distress evident in his young voice. One large tear dripped down his face. It was too early to deal with this kind of unpleasant surprise.

"Your papa is sleeping," Jim explained, uncertain of how much the little guy could understand. He was rewarded with a glare from Sam, who decided it was a good time to wake the house up and prepared himself to wail despondently. Jim, catching the signs, tried his best to distract Sammy.

"Do you want a bottle?" He offered.

Breath already drawn to voice his distress, Sam accepted the bribe and nodded. Tears were now falling freely down his face. Jim's heart went out to the boy and he cautiously bent to gather the stranger's baby in his arms.

"Da da…" Sam hiccupped desolately into Jim's shoulder, though he allowed the stranger to comfort him.

"Hush now," cooed Jim, surprised at how well this was working. His niece and nephew rarely allowed him to get this close, always preferring their parents to the gentle but inexperienced Pastor. Sam, though hardly neglected, was not so used to being coddled that he wouldn't accept comfort when it was offered.

"Milk?" Sam prompted, drawing a comically deep breath and rubbing his eyes with one small fist.

Jim marveled at how warm and soft the baby was as he rushed to obey the demand. John had left a bottle in the fridge, which the Pastor quickly popped into the microwave. At the sight of it, Sam's demeanor brightened noticeably. He started to finger Jim's collar curiously.

Jim plopped down in a kitchen chair and gave the boy and encouraging smile. Sam wasn't ready to go that far, but he looked at the new acquaintance with solemn eyes. Now that he was calm, a vague memory was returning and his childish instincts were rightly telling him that this was a man he could trust.

The microwave dinged and Sam looked at Jim, excited. "Beep!" Sam related, mimicking the sound.

Jim chuckled and took delight in feeding the boy, who could really do it himself these days, but Sam humored the Pastor, who had never had a baby of his own to cuddle. Sam looked up at the man, twirling his baby curls with one little finger.

When the bottle was gone, Sam was less fragile. Jim decided to take a crack at changing the boy. He didn't know that much about babies, but even an amateur could see that the sagging diaper was pretty much at capacity. Digging through the bag John had left in the kitchen, Jim found the proper materials and arranged them uncertainly on the counter.

Sam, torn between the comfort offered by a dry diaper and a mistrust of the obvious beginner, whimpered uncertainly. This developed into an offended roar when Jim decided to take the plunge, but it was over quickly and Sam soon quieted.

When John finally arrived, feeling rested in a way that had escaped him for months, Sam was helping Jim read the paper.

At the sight of his father, Sam remembered that he had been abandoned and voiced his disapproval by practically launching himself into John's arms, sobbing. Jim looked up in surprise while John smiled into the baby's hair. "Hey, hey," the dad said good humoredly. "I'm right here."

"He was doing just fine!" Jim protested.

"I know," John answered, "he's just letting me know how much he missed me, right, buddy?"

Sam smiled shyly back, leaning his head on John's shoulder.

* * *

Author's note: Can you tell that I used to baby-sit, and not in a small way? 


	13. Training Day

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XIII. Training Day**

* * *

_**Dean:** Come on, it wasn't easy, but it wasn't that bad._

* * *

_August 4, 1984_

The weight of the BB gun was familiar in Deans hot little hand. The five year old held on firmly, taking aim. _Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop_. Five direct hits. The little boy allowed himself a slight smile, knowing his dad was watching closely. He wouldn't disappoint. Hand steady, Dean kept his excitement and nervousness in check. _Pop. Pop. Pop. _He paused.

"Come on Dean," John instructed. "Don't hesitate."

Dean held on tight to his emotions, but obeyed, firing rapidly. _Pop. Pop. _He reloaded quickly, fluidly. _Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. _Perfect. Dean's face glowed a little in triumph. It was the second time he had hit all the marks. And they weren't the easy ones, either. Not like in Mr. Elkin's yard. Dad had made this course real hard, but Dean had gotten every one of the soda cans Dad had set up in the woods surrounding Blue Earth. The two older Winchesters had left Sammy, who had gone down for an afternoon nap, with Jim while John took the unexpected free time to train Dean. The five-year-old had been versed in target practice, but only intermittently in Colorado between hunts.

"Good job." John said, slapping his son on the back and grinning down at him. Dean's face grew red with the praise, but he smiled back at this dad, who was already moving on, "Okay, put those guns away."

"Yes, sir." Dean was disappointed, but he didn't question. He quickly unloaded and cleaned the guns, carefully, like Dad had showed him.

_Was that it?_ He thought. Usually the lessons lasted longer than that. Dean wondered what else was in store. He hoped they wouldn't do endurance training, ´cause that was real hard. Target practice was Dean's favorite, though he also liked it when Dad showed him some army moves. He liked the feel of the gun in his hand, liked the kick when he pulled the trigger. More than anything he liked the precision of it, took pleasure in the direct hit.

Someday Dean would be as good as Dad. Dad never missed. Dean could protect Sammy for real, then, when he was a grown up. 'cuz guns were for grown-ups and they weren't toys. Then he could go on hunts, too. He could help Dad kill the bad things.

Dean loved to spend time with his Dad, loved the way John looked at him so seriously, almost like Dean were an adult too.

Stowing the BB guns neatly in the Impala, Dean turned to Dad for further instruction.

Dad had set up new targets. When he came back, boots scraping in the gravel, he took a rifle from the trunk of the impala. It was just like John's except for smaller. Dean's eyes lit up, though he was real nervous. He wasn't as strong as Dad and he knew that real guns "kicked like a bitch," according to Dad, though Dean wasn't allowed to repeat that kind of language.

"A Winchester for a Winchester," smiled Dad in response to Dean's questioning look. He held out the rifle easily for Dean to see, kneeling down easily to begin the lesson. John wasn't much for verbal instruction, so he showed Dean how to hold it, point out the different parts and demonstrating how to load, aim, shoot (Man, that was loud), and care for the rifle. Dean watched it all intensely, absorbing it all as quickly as he could. John went through it all twice, to be sure that Dean understood.

"Got it?" John prompted.

"Yes, sir." Dean responded.

"Okay, than let's see it." John handed the rifle to Dean. The boy couldn't suppress the slow smile that spread across his face. His small hands moved surely under Dad's watchful eye. When he paused, Dad would lead him through it, correcting any clumsiness. When Dean was ready to shoot, Dad stood close behind him.

"Don't drop it," John warned.

_I'm not going to drop it_, Dean thought indignantly, but just reasserted his grip a little. The rifle was still a little too long for him, so he had to stretch out his arms a bit.

"When you're ready." John encouraged. "Keep it steady, Dean."

Dean stilled himself the way Dad had taught him and took aim. When he had the target in his sight, good and steady, he pulled the trigger. The bang was deafening and the gun jumped like a live thing. Dean drew in a sharp breath as the butt nailed him in the shoulder. Dean nearly lost his grip, but held on tight, quickly recovering from the slip. He glanced apprehensively at his Dad, but John's eyes were on the target. The bullet had been way high, not coming anywhere close.

When John looked down at Dean, he didn't look mad, but his face was serious.

"Again," he prompted. This time Dean knew what to expect and the rifle didn't slip so much, but he was high again. The third shot he over corrected, sagging a little ´cause the rifle was heavy, and the bullet was low, banging into the stump beneath the target. John helped him take aim for the fourth time, this time they were off horizontally.

"Steady," John ordered. Frustrated and sore from the kick of the rifle, Dean resolutely took aim, gripping the gun tightly and fired, taking the rebound staunchly where in banged against the muscle in his shoulder and focusing on the target. It hit dead on.

"YES." John responded, finally breaking a smile. Dean let out a relieved breath. His arm was tired and sore and he wondered how much longer they would have to do this, but didn't complain as Dad kept him practicing for half and hour more before they packed up for home. As they finished up, John gave Dean the same lecture he always did when they were working with guns. "These aren't toys, Dean. Remember what I said. You are never to touch these or any other hunting equipment without my permission. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Dean confirmed.

As the Impala ground over the gravel road, back to Jim's house, John turned on the radio, finding an oldies station. Dean rubbed his sore shoulder, staring out the window.

"Does it hurt?" John asked, a little concerned.

Dean shrugged, but the gesture made him wince. His right side was completely useless.

"Dean." John prompted, unimpressed by the five year olds display of machoism.

"A little," Dean conceded.

John stretched out a hand to rest it on Dean's little head.

"We'll ice it when we get back," John decided.

* * *

Author's note: Please excuse any inaccuracy. I have never fired a gun in my life (not really intending to either) and have on a vague idea of the difference between a rifle and a handgun. I know a BB gun is a lot weaker than a firearm. Hope the sound it makes is something like _Pop_, lol. 


	14. Education

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XIV. Education  
**

* * *

_**Dean**: Growing up in a place like this would freak me out.  
__**Sam**: Why?  
__**Dean**: The manicured lawns, "How was your day, honey?" I'd blow my brains out.  
_

* * *

_September 2, 1984_

"Dean, come on!" John called up the stairs. Was it really September already? John had rented a house at the last minute, almost randomly choosing the suburbs of Minneapolis as the family's temporary residence. As alternative motivation the home base wasn't too far from Blue Earth and John had already made contact with a local Wendigo expert. They were planning on meeting later that day. That is if Dean ever finished getting ready.

"Dean! Now!" John tried again.

"I can't find my shoes!" came the panicked response.

John couldn't help letting out a frustrated sigh as he glanced around the bare living room for the raggedly looking sneakers. He found them behind the couch. "They´re down here," he yelled up the stairs. Dean trooped down, looking contrite. John decided to spare the lecture, given that the five-year-old was a bundle of nerves.

"Shoes, jacket, backpack," John ordered, giving Dean a small push to get him moving. They were more than fifteen minutes late.

"Can't I start school tomorrow?" Dean pleaded, already tugging on his shoes and pushing down the Velcro tabs.

"No," John said, sternly. He looked around, a little lost. "Where is Sam?" He asked.

"On the stairs," Dean replied. Sam had only made it halfway up in pursuit of his brother when Dean slipped past. The toddler was now making the arduous journey down towards the voices, scowling in frustration.

Dean straightened up, giving John a full view of his t-shirt. "Dean!" John said, frustrated. "You can't wear that. It's filthy. What were you thinking?"

Dean looked completely overwhelmed. The Winchesters were not used to working under such strict deadlines and the stress of the morning had the little boy close to tears. "But it's my favorite!" he whined.

"Go. Change." John ordered, voice leaving no room for argument.

"But Dad." Dean tried, desperately.

"I'm going to count to three. One…"

Dean sucked in further complaints and scrambled to obey.

John grabbed Sam, realizing that the toddler was also missing certain articles.

"Dean! Where are Sam's shoes?" He yelled up the stairs.

"Under the table in the kitchen!" Came the muffled reply.

_And what are they doing there?_ John inwardly growled as he bent to collect the sandals.

"ME!" Sam insisted, reaching for the shoes. John ignored him and forced the squirming feet into the tiny shoes. Sam went from calm to temper tantrum mode in three seconds flat. "NOOOO!" He howled, kicking stubbornly.

"Samuel Winchester," John scolded through gritted teeth. "Stop that right now." Sam continued to scream as John scooped him up to impede the boy's efforts to undo his father's handiwork.

When Dean appeared at the bottom of the stairs, he was wearing a clean shirt. John hustled him into a jacket Jim had given them from the church clothes closet, grabbed the backpack Dean had picked out in the grocery store that weekend in one hand and quickly ushered the boys out the door.

John strapped Sam, who was now whimpering resignedly, into the carseat, motioning for Dean to climb in the front. Dean did, turning to dig a pacifier from the carseat next to Sam and pop it into Sam's unhappy scowl. Sam quieted noticeably. Dean turned around in satisfaction as John started the engine.

"Dad, I don't think Sammy wants me to go to school," Dean commented hopefully.

"Well, Sam is going to have to learn to live with the disappointment." John snapped, pulling out the driveway.

Dean shrugged dejectedly, hiding the sting of the words by looking determinedly out the window. He cupped his chin in his hand and tried to hide how scared he was. He didn't understand why Dad was sending him away. Hadn't he been good? Hadn't he taken care of Sammy when Dad asked? Now Dad would have to do it all by himself and it served him right. Sammy would cry, 'cause Sammy loved Dean the most. Dean was always gentle with Sam and knew how to make him stop crying or whining or sulking. Dad just put him in time out, not like Dean.

Tears threatened, but Dean was too old to cry. Momma would want him to be brave. Unfortunately, this was the wrong thought for the five year old because Dean was suddenly gripped by a desperate longing for Mary. She wouldn't yell at him, and she would have washed his favorite shirt like Dad said he would.

John listened to the heavy silence helplessly, feeling like a veritable monster. They pulled up in front of the school. The place was deserted, all the normal fathers already off at work and all the normal kids sitting in their God Damn desks. John tried to loosen the knot in his throat, unbuckling his seatbelt. Dean followed his lead. The little boy swallowed gathering tears. 

"Hey buddy," John managed. "I'm sorry I snapped."

Dean nodded, blowing out a nervous breath. "It's okay, Dad." He replied, putting on a brave face.

_Right. _Thought John, incredulous. He ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, sport. Let's do this."

Dean nodded once, determined. He climbed out of the car, gripping the Batman backpack with white fingers. John followed, gently lifting Sam, who was half asleep in the backseat, to his shoulder.

After a bit of maneuvering, the three of them arrived at the door of the kindergarten. The classroom was bright and cheerful, hardly mirroring the morning's emotion. The Winchesters stood awkwardly in the doorway until the teacher, smiling in the way kindergarten teachers, took a moment from supervising the general chaos to approach.

"You must be Dean," She said, giving Dean a smile that kinda freaked him out. He stepped into his Dad's shadow, wanting to make a run for it. "I'm Miss Olson."

Dean looked at her skeptically, not saying anything. John gave him a slight push.

"Hello." Dean grunted, a little resentfully.

"Dean. Please go hang up your jacket and knapsack in the coat room." Miss Olson prompted. Dean didn't want to do it. He didn't want to be there. He didn't like this woman or this place. He didn't want those other kids to look at him. All he wanted was to go home with Sammy and Dad. But Dad said he had to stay and mind the teacher and not to cause trouble, so he went to the coat room and put his stuff away. Dad took that papers that Miss Olson gave him.

There were times when John had to pretend to be a normal human being, but those were the times when the widower felt the strangest. He had nothing to say to the smiling, kind hearted Miss Olson, who was looking at him expectantly, one eye wandering to a precarious looking block pile. Dean's face read "Don't you leave me here," so loud that John couldn't bear to meet his eyes.

Promising greater punctuality in the future, John bid an awkward good bye and slunk away quickly. As he walked down the hall, Sam raised the alarm. "Dean?" He said in confusion. John didn't know what to tell him.

* * *

Miss Olson caught the deserted look on Dean's face and quickly jumped into action. "Dean, this is going to be your desk," She said, pressing a box of crayons into his hands and leading him over to the empty spot at the table. Being the original, forward thinking educator that she was, Miss Olson had decided to begin with the letter A, see where that took her. The kids were practicing writing As and coloring apples, alligators and ants from a worksheet designed for such activities. 

Dean looked at her like she was insane. _This is what you do at school?_ He thought. _This is baby stuff._ Miss Olson was already moving on, patiently explaining to a red head that was not okay to draw on the desk. Dean, taking stock of the situation, eased into his seat. There were three other kids at the table. Two girls, which he ignored as a matter of principle, and one other boy. The boy was working diligently. Dean suppressed an eye roll. Sighing, he took out a crayon and drew a horn on the alligator. It looked like a picture from Dad's book.

"You're supposed to do the letters first," commented the blond girl, accusingly. Dean was about to tell her to mind her business when the boy, looking up from his mess, interrupted.

"Cock-a-diles are green," he offered.

_Everybody's a critic_, thought Dean, fixing them with a general glare. "No, they're not. Shut up," he replied defensively.

Blond girl, of course, had to tattle, though Miss Olson just gave him a warning, which wasn't so bad. "Dean, we don't say shut up here."

She suggested they not talk, which was fine with Dean. He wasn't in the mood anyway. When Miss Olson had them practice lining up (LAME, thought Dean), his alligator was purple with red spots, like Dad's book—and there wasn't anything "Danny" could do about it.

* * *

Dad was ten minutes late picking him up, a fact that left the little boy dry mouthed. He took his rightful place in the front seat, giving Dad the most reproving look he dared. 

"How was it?" John asked neutrally.

"It sucked." Dean offered.

"Dean Winchester. Watch your mouth." John reproved.

_At least Sammy was glad to see him. _

* * *

Author's note: Review please. 


	15. Clowns

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XV. Clowns  
**

* * *

_**Dean**: I know what you´re thinking, why did it have to be clowns?  
**Sam**: Gimme a break  
_

* * *

_September 17, 1984_

"Where do you think you're going?" John asked playfully, grabbing Sam by the collar to impede his progress. The little guy was quick as a cat these days. Sam stopped, necessarily, looking up at his dad with big eyes.

"School! like Dean." He explained innocently.

"I don't think so," John corrected, gathering the little boy in his lap.

A pouty bottom lip protruded, but Sam, mindful of the swat he'd received the last time he'd screamed to get his way, decided to try a different ploy.

"Pleeeese, Da Da."

"No babytalk, Sam," John said, firm.

"We never do anything fun," Sam whined.

"Wadda ya mean?" John asked, giving Sam a playful bounce and tickling away the pout. "Sure we do."

"Na-uh," Sam insisted, smiling and leaning into his Dad´s embrace.

John started to remind his son about going to the park, before he realized that was more than a week old and it hadn't been that fun anyway. Sam had taken a tumble, ended up bloody and screaming. John had nearly had a heart attack before he realized that the kid was okay.

It had taken the pair of them a while to adjust to being alone together. Sam cried for Dean, making John feel rejected and helpless. Sam, who shared the sentiment, was lonely for a while till he learned to find ways of amusing himself. And John learned to research with one ear open to avert disaster, like when Sam tried to "help" unload groceries and had ended up dumping a box of lucky charms all over the small kitchen. He was happily munching on marshmallows when John came in to check on him.

There were times when John felt like splurging on childcare—like the time he had spent two hours going out of his mind while Sam slept blissfully unaware in the closet. The toddler hadn't understood a word of that rant, but the tone had been crystal clear. Apparently there were rules about closets in their house.

Unfortunately, John barely had a source of income and his and Mary's combined assets were drying up fast. The places he might trust with his kid were out of their price range. Besides, raising Sam was one of the only things John was really proud of. If he was strict, and okay, yeah, he was strict, it was only because Mary's death had left him with the terrible responsibility of raising Sam alone.

Dean, at least, could still remember, still retained some of Mary's patient parenting, repeating some of the phrases she would use. John knew he should encourage that, but he didn't. It hurt too much. And the bad thing was that Dean knew. Dean knew and so he hid a lot. Sometimes John felt like he didn't know his son at all, just got the reflection of what Dean wanted him to see.

With Sam it was simpler, if not easier. The baby of the family wore his heart on his sleeve. When he was sad, he cried and cuddled. Angry, he raged. Happy, he dimpled. At the moment he was restless, squirming in John's lap.

"Hey Sammy?" John prompted. "How about escorting your old man to the library?"

Sam nodded, understanding that they were going to finally get out of the house.

John knew that Sam liked the library, would sit at his feet working his way through a pile of picture books, starting at each page with surprising intensity. If the place was deserted, which it usually was, John let him crawl through the maze of chairs, chatting seriously to himself, while John leafed through old newspaper articles and obituaries.

Bundling up, the two faced the chilly fall sunshine together. Sam looked completely adorable in the little hat Jim had procured and John couldn't help smile as the little hand reached up for his.

* * *

In the children's section, John set Sam loose to pick out his books. Sam choose carefully, bringing one book over at a time for John's inspection. John would read him the title and add it to the growing pile. Going back for a third, Sam's eyes lighted on a gathering circle of kids, setting up for story time. His face turned to John with an unspoken plea that the father couldn't deny. John nodded his permission and stood up, thinking to pick out some books for Dean while Sam settled himself up close, cross-legged, chin in hand.

Fifteen minutes later, John was reliving his own childhood while paging through a hardy boys novel when a small body collided desperately with his leg. Sam, whimpering, attempted to scale his father's legs in his urgency to be picked up. John, instinctively wrapping protective arms around the small boy, glanced around the for the threat that had reduced his generally fearless little soldier to tears.

He followed Sam's horrified glance to the grotesque makeup of Pepe the Clown, who gave him an encouraging wave before turning to hand out animal shaped balloons. Sam buried his head in John's shoulder. "Don't be scared, Sammy," John soothed, ´cause the boy was literally trembling with fear. "It's just a clown."

"I don't LIKE clowns." Sam managed, not letting up his grip on John's neck.

"Oh-kay." Said John, bending to gather their pile of books before removing his son from the terrible scene.

* * *

Author's note: Haha, a little short on content, but hope you like it. 


	16. Anger

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XVI. Anger**

* * *

_**Dean**: I´m supposed to be the beligerent one, remember?_

* * *

_September 30, 1984_

"Sammy, let him be, he´s being punished," John commanded firmly as Sam toddled over to his brother, who was staring modily at the corner of the Winchester´s living room, incrediably bored. Sam obediently changed course, bringing the picture book he was going to show Dean over for John´s inspection. John tried ignoring him, knowing if he looked into those soulful little eyes that would be the end of his research for the afternoon. Sam watched him, a little sadly. He wanted to play.

"How come?" demanded the little voice. When John didn't respond, Sam tried again, louder. "DA DA, how come?"

"How come what?" John conceded, still working.

"How come Dean'z bein' punished?"

John inwardly sighed, knowing he wasn't going to get any work done at this rate. Sometimes being a Dad and being a Hunter (big h) just didn't mix very well. "That´s between him and me, Sammy," he tried.

"Oh." Sam commented, but he was still fishing for attention. "Did he do something _bad_?" Sam asked.

Dean, horrified, felt his ears glow red.

The boy was having a really terrible day. He had known he was in trouble long before the recess monitor had him by the ear. These were not the type of waves that Dad appreciated.

John had been fairly explicit the last time Dean had a got a note sent home, and that had only been for...um... "word choice" and "inappropriate behavior." He still maintained (though not where his dad could hear) that Michael _was_ a stupidhead and that _if _he had wanted to throw the block at the boys head, it would have connected. Simple as that. Yes, Dean could do a lot of damage when he put his mind to it, which was why Aaron was bleeding from the nose fifteen minutes after the two of them had been hauled to the principal's office for fighting.

Aaron, a second grader with a puffed up opinion of himself, had been grating on Dean´s nerves for more than a week. Tyrant of the small playground, Aaron and his buddies had effectively forced out the younger grades claiming the small play structure for themselves everyday at 10:15. Only by playing court to the small emperor could the younger kids gain entrance to the prize swings, the new rickety bridge. The small drama played out between the girls hopscotch courts and the organized kickball games, teachers none the wiser due to the code of silence well known to all young males.

In an attempt to expand his domain, Aaron had recently taken to demanding tribute from those unwise enough to inhabit the borderlands. Dean had the audacity to call him out, despite the fact that he was nearly a head shorter than the boy. Aaron obviously underestimated the little boy´s resolve when he had started handing out insults.

The exchange was something to this effect:

"Move, shrimp."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said No."

"Well, I musta not been hearing right, kid. ´cause we´re playing here. So, _move_." This was accompanied by a minor shove, which may have intimidated a lesser man, but it didn't exactly have Dean Winchester trembling in his boots.

"Make me, you big jerk" he demanded, pulling himself up and presenting a formidable barrier despite his short stature.

Aaron was blissfully unaware of the dangers involved in what he was about to say. "Listen, trailer trash, you talk pretty big for a ___kindergartener_."

"Yeah, well, you´re pretty stupid for a seven year old."

"I´m eight."

"Oops. My mistake. You´re pretty stupid for an _eight _year old."

"Yeah, well, at least I have more than two t-shirts."

"At least I don´t need my mommy to help me get dressed in the morning."

"At least I_ have_ a mom," there was a silence, a dangerous silence as Dean´s felt the anger rise. Aaron, proving Dean´s theory about his intelligence, added, "And _my_ dad has a job."

That was the last thing that Dean had heard before his fist connected, beautifully and painfully, with the boys nose. Aaron, lashing out blindly, managed to use his extra weight to shove Dean down. But the kindergartener was up again in a second, ready to go at it for real this time. He had done minimal damage before the two were pulled apart.

Heartbeats gradually returned to normal as the school nurse patched up the skinned knees, looking disapprovingly down her long nose. Dean seethed silently. _People suck,_ he thought. As he cooled down, there was a bitter taste in his mouth.

The young Winchester was hardly impressed by the mild lecture they had received from the principal, (John Winchester was the one to go to if you wanted to put the fear of god into someone... which was exactly what Dean, as his head cleared, began to dread). Both boys had to sit in the office and wait for their parents to come. Aaron´s mom was there within the hour, giving Dean a really mean look as she ushered her "sweet little boy" away. Dean didn't think Aaron was sweet AND he was bigger than Dean.

Dean was given time to stew over this while he waited for his father to make an appearance. Finally John came striding in, holding Sammy in his arms. Dean endured the thorough inspection that revealed nothing more than a skinned elbow and bruised shoulder from where Dean had been pushed to the ground.

Dad´s stormy demeanor warned Dean to keep quiet. He wasn't exactly bursting to explain, anyway. Sammy, the little rock, gave him a sympathetic look as he settled next to his big brother while John went in to talk with the principal.

"Di'ja fall down?" Sammy asked.

"Uh... yeah."

Sammy´s small arms squeezed him gently, but reassuringly. He seemed so much older than a year and a half. Dean conceded to take some comfort, pulling the baby onto his lap, knowing the ordeal was not half over.

A gradual crescendo of voices was soon heard from the other side of the door. One voice, actually... fairly familiar. The Winchester brothers shared a rueful look. Little Sammy put his head in his hands and sighed in a way that might have been amusing if Dean wasn't too busy desperately wishing he was somewhere else. A minute later every one of John´s well enunciated words echoed in the quiet office. The secretaries shared a look of horror, carefully not looking at the unfortunate young boys. Dean knew what they were thinking, silently rebelled against their pity.

John´s voice: "What the fuck kind of school is this?"

Whatever response, probably noncommittal, couldn't be heard.

"Well, that´s just wonderful. Thanks a lot. Thanks for nothing." The door opened and John appeared, wearing a red face and a contemptuous expression. Dean was on his feet immediately, anticipating Dad´s curt nod. Sammy kept quiet as he was plucked from Dean´s arms.

"Sir, you have to check him out. Sir!" The secretary said in panic.

John swiveled and made the requisite scribble on the piece of paper before firmly steering Dean from the office. The family made its way, without comment, to the Impala. Sam was strapped in the back and Dean climbed in the front. John didn't say anything during the ride back to their house, though it was hardly a tranquil silence.

At the sight of their dilapidated rental house, surrounded by rows of others just as shoddy and sad-looking, Dean felt another surge of anger. _It wasn't fair!_ He hadn't even done anything wrong. The whole thing had been Aaron´s fault.

Dad was _so_ mad, which wasn't really that unusual. Even _before_ Dad hadn't been one to "put up with foolishness," but Dean had done everything he could to be good. He really had tried. Dean snuk an apprehensive look at his dad as John killed the engine. The father sat looking straight ahead, white knuckles gripping the wheel. Both boys waited for John to make the first move.

"Dean. Take your brother inside and put him down for a nap," John finally ordered, letting out a sigh.

"Yes, sir." Dean complied immediately, taking the house keys and sliding out the door quickly.

"NO nap," Sam protested.

"Samuel," John threatened. Sam shrunk back at the tone, taking his brothers hand as Dean hauled him from the back seat.

"I´m NOT sleepy," Sam complained as Dean led him up the walk.

"You don´t have to go to sleep, Sammy," Dean coaxed, knowing that Sam would be out like a light in five minutes. Yep, Sam would be well out of the way while he and Dad "talked." He swallowed the dread of punishment and ushered Sam into their shared room. "Just lie down for a little while."

"I don´t want to," Sam whimpered, tears flowing. He allowed Dean to take off his shoes and pop him into bed, though he refused to be comforted when Dean gently patted his head. "Dean, will you _stay_ with me?" He begged, knowing something was going on with his father, but too young to understand.

Dean, to his horror, felt tears forming in his own eyes, but quickly put on a brave face for his brother. "Sammy, I _can´t_." He responded, a little desperately. "Just close your eyes, okay? Everything is going to be okay. I promise."

Sam, gave him one last pleading look, but conceded. "O.K." he said, though there was a pathetic little hitch in his voice. He lay back on the pillow, tiny little hand going up to twirl his long baby curls. Dean didn't say anything when Sam stuck his thumb in his mouth, even though Dad didn't like that very much. As Sam trustfully closed his eyes, Dean slipped quietly from the room, making sure the night light was on and closing the door silently behind him.

The silent house greeted him and he climbed up on the couch, checking to see if his father was still in the car. There John sat, as intimidating a figure as ever, looking off into the distance at something that Dean couldn't see, perhaps talking to Momma, the way he sometimes did when he was really mad or real sad or when he drank a lot. Dean felt his heart breaking then, knowing that this time it was his fault. Dad couldn't even bare to look at him.

Having done as Dad said and put Sam down for a nap, Dean sat on the couch, awaiting his fate. The clock ticked loudly and a million years later the door opened. John entered. Dean quickly stood, looking repentant. John sighed and took off his jacket, running a hand through his dark hair and looking down at the small boy. Dean simply waited.

"You want to tell me what you were thinking?" John demanded.

Dean told the story as simply as he could. "I got real mad." He said, not meaning it as a justification, just trying to explain.

"That´s not an excuse!" John snapped.

"Yes, sir." Dean conceded, looking at his shoes.

"You´re suspended from school for two days," John informed him. "And you are grounded for a week. That means no TV, you stay inside with me and Sammy, extra chores and extra training. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dean replied.

"Dean, you cannot behave this way," John continued to lecture, pacing his way into a rant. "I told you before that what I´m teaching you is very serious stuff and you are NOT to use it against other kids. You could really hurt someone!"

"I know, it´s just that he said..."

"I DON´T care what he said," John interrupted, not half finished. "I don´t want you fighting with other kids and that´s it. A Hunter keeps his wits about him. That means you keep your emotions in check. Don´t be stupid, Dean. And don´t let me down like this again. I mean it. A lot of people need my help. I can´t do my job when I get called in to your school for fighting or disobedience. This kind of behavior is unacceptable. It tells me that you´re not ready for the stuff I've been teaching you. I have to be able to trust you, Dean. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," Dean said quietly, swallowing hard. "Yes, sir."

"If it happens again, you won´t sit down for a week," John threatened, blowing out a frustrated breath. "Now go stand in the corner and think about what I said."

Dean quickly obeyed. John set himself up on the table, newspaper articles spread out and journal at hand. An hour later he went to check on Sammy, who was sleeping hotly, curled up under the soft blue blanket. John stood in the doorway, face a mask, looking at the little guy. _Mary, what the_ hell _am I doing?_ He asked desperately. But there was no response. He let Sam sleep as long as possible, went back to reading about cattle mutilations in Nevada, suicide in Oregon.

* * *

Author's note: A new chapter! In the process of tightening the timeline for earlier chapters. Please review. 


	17. Wrecked

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XVII. Wrecked**

* * *

**John**: You know when ... when you were a kid, I'd come home from a hunt, and after what I'd seen I'd be... I'd be wrecked. And you, you'd come up to me and you... you put your hand on my shoulder, you'd look me in the eye and... you'd say "it's okay, Dad". Dean... I'm sorry.  
**Dean**: Why ?  
**John**: You shouldn't have to say that to me, I should have been saying that to you. You know I put... I put too much on your shoulders, I made you grow up to fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once. I just wanted you to know that I'm so proud of you.

* * *

_October 30, 1984_

"Dad are we going to go trick-or-treating this year?" asked Dean softly as John tucked him into bed beside a sleeping Sammy. Falling leaves and pumpkin seed counting activities brought back memories from Dean´s formative years in Lawrence where every 31st of October the kids hit the well-lit streets to bring in the loot. It was something Dean did with his Dad, Mary staying home to hand out candy and, in their last year together, to take care of baby Sam.

John ran a calloused hand over his son´s head as he remembered those nights too. "Not this year, Bud," he whispered. "I´m going hunting. You and Sammy are going to stay with Pastor Jim, remember?"

"Oh." Dean said, trying not to sound overly dissapointed. John understood, suddenly wishing he could take the night off to do the traditional trek with his sons. But that wasn´t going to be possible, not with All Hallow´s Eve weaking the Vale.

"Dad?" Dean asked as John started to stand up to go.

"Yep?"

"We´re supposed to wear a costume to school tomorrow... for Halloween."

"And you didn´t think to mention this before?" John asked, panic turning his voice hard.

"It´s okay, Dad. I already have a costume," Dean said quickly.

"Oh, yeah? What are you going to be?"

"Jesus!"

John choked on his laugh, mindful of Sam in the opposite bed and of the feelings of his oldest, who was looking at him with playful eyes. "You´re going to be _Jesus_ for Halloween?" he deadpanned.

"Yeah. Pastor Jim says he´s magic, like superman."

"Okay, well, I can´t wait to see it. Now get some sleep," John said.

"Dad?"

"What Dean?" John said, trying to sound firm. It was getting late after all.

"What if Sammy gets scared while you´re gone?"

John smiled down and the five-year-old, wondering if it was really Sam he was worrying about. "Why would Sammy be scared?" John probed, caressing the boy´s head once again.

"Well, ´cause there could be monsters and stuff," Dean answered, trying to seem unconcerned.

"Sam doesn´t have to be scared of the monsters, Dean," John said gently.

"Wull, he´s real little," the little boy said defensively.

John nodded, unable to keep a slight smile from his lips. "Well, you two should stick close to Pastor Jim, then. ´cause he is a really excellent monster-hunter."

"Better than you?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"Well, we´re both pretty good," John conceded, basking in his son´s unabashed hero-worship.

"Then why can´t_ he_ go hunt monsters while you stay here with us?" Dean demanded.

John gave the five year old a reproving look and motioned for him to keep his voice down so as not to wake Sam. Dean´s bright eyes turned heartbreakingly apoligetic and he settled deeper into bed, not expecting an answer.

"Pastor Jim has to stay near the church in case somebody need his help, Dean."

Dean nodded unhappily. He guessed that made sense.

"Good-night, Dean," John said, moving to the door.

"´Night Dad," Dean responded.

* * *

_October 31, 1984_

John picked Dean up after school, watched as the streams of ballerinas, pirates, vampires, witches and little red devils poured out the doors. His own little saint soon appeared, flip flops and a white sheet working to get the general idea across. The painted beard was not particularly holy, but it sure looked cute. Dean slipped into the front seat next to his dad, grinning widely as he showed John the prize bag they had gotten from the teacher. John nodded and insisted that he share the chocolate with his little brother.

"Aw, man," Dean protested, but willingly placed a kit kat bar in Sam´s grasping hands.

A half hour later the Winchesters were on their way to Blue Earth and the boys were already well on their way to a sugar high. John was almost glad he was leaving them with Jim for the weekend.

"Dean, turn around. Right now," John ordered because Dean was twisting around in his seat to show Sam the painting he had done for school. Dean complied immediately, slumping down dramatically and stuffing the picture roughly into his backpack.

"Are we almost there?" he asked with a sigh.

"Dean, you asked me that five minutes ago." John said, annoyance coming through loud and clear.

"Sorry." Dean said, trying to remember what the answer had been.

"I have to go potty!" Sam announced from the back. John inwardly groaned, but immediately started looking for a gas station. Considering Sam had only been potty trained for about a month (about a week of intensive training had done the trick), the little guy did pretty well. Hell, Dean had been at least two and a half before he got the idea and John was hardly complaining about the dirty diaper reprieve. However, the father knew that he would be lucky if Sam could hold it for 5 minutes and he wasn´t about to stake the Impalas apolstery on Sam´s bladder.

They pulled into a Minimart a few minutes later and everyone used the facilities. John resisted pleas for more chocolate (he owed the Pastor that much at least) but he did splurge on a Halloween coloring book and a box of crayons, insisting that Dean ride in the back with Sam. This suited the kindergartener just fine and he was soon spinning a wild tale for the toddler´s benefit while Sam watched wide-eyed. John listened with half and ear as he pulled onto the highway once again.

"Once Upon A Time... if was Halloween," Dean extrapolated from the picture of a pumpkin on the first page. The next page had a witch. "So the wicca decided to have a human sacrifice," Dean said matter a factly. John´s eyes widened._ I guess that´s what Miss Olson was talking about in parent teacher conferences last week-- _one of her many concerns had been about Dean´s over active imagination. The smiling trick or treaters on the next page of the coloring book were converted into the witches´ unsuspecting targets, the little ghost was an obvious evil spy. Frankenstein was a hunter who had disguised himself to win the witches´ trust. "They all went to the haunted house--which was really stupid ´cause their Dad said NOT to go outside after dark," Dean commented, flipping to the next page. "And the witches tried to lure them in with candy. But this one wasn´t as dumb as the rest, so he said ´No! I don´t want your stupid candy!´"

"Dean, keep it down," John said as the boy´s enthusiasm resulted in a dramatic screech.

Dean´s voice dropped to a exaggerated whisper. "But before they could get away, she grabbed the little boy in the devil costume and swung him around by the tail like this." A scribble of red indicated the velocity of the the whirling devil. Sam, horrified, started to cry. Both John and Dean looked at him in surprise before Dean quickly amended. "But it´s okay, Sammy. Then the Hunter came and killed all the evil witches." He quickly used the red crayon to X out the witch´s smiling face. "And all the kids got to go home safely... though they were in BIG trouble when their dad found out."

"The end." He commented, looking worriedly at his brother´s distressed face. He put a comforting hand on Sam´s shoulder. "It´s okay, Sammy," he repeated. Sam nodded.

"What color should I color the pumpkin?" Dean asked, settling.

"Boo." Sam said, after thinking a minute.

"Blue? Okay." Dean said easily. "You´re right, it´s probably moldy and rotten." He reached for the crayons.

"Yeah!" Sam said, excitedly.

* * *

They were in Blue Earth within the hour, Dean grabbing the small duffle with clothes for him and Sam while John lifted Sam and the diaper bag with Sam´s night-time diapers, bottle and assorted sippy cup fragments from the back. They navigated around the puddles that surrounded the Pastor´s driveway. The mud around the country parish was ankle deep and it looked like there was more rain to come. _Just great,_ thought John as he glanced at the threatening sky.

Jim met them at the door, tight lipped with the stress of an already eventful day.

"Come on in, boys," Jim said, motioning the family inside.

"Dean, go put your stuff in your room." John ordered. Dean hurried to obey. Jim raised eyebrows at the boy´s costume. "He´s Jesus," John said, still enjoying the joke.

"What´s up?" He asked, sensing that something had shaken the man.

"It´s Joshua, he was wounded last night in the first graveyard run. He says it´s not bad, but you guys need to be very careful."

"Yeah," John agreed, blowing out a sigh."Okay, I´ve got to get out of here." Sam, hearing this, began to cry in all seriousness, clinging to John´s leg. John tried to steel himself, but the forlorn wail was more than he could bare. He picked up his son, held him close. "Hey buddy, hey now," he whispered into Sammy´s mop of hair. Dean reappeared, watching his father with too old eyes.

"Don´t go," Sam begged.

"Sammy, that´s enough," John tried. Sam responded by gripping him tighter, tears streaming down his face. Dean stepped forward and held out his arms for Sam. John gently detached Sammy and transfered the boy to his older brother. Dean gave Sam a little bounce, which illicited a hiccup from the toddler.

"Okay," said John, kneeling down and putting a hand on Dean´s shoulder. "You boys be good, now. Ya hear?"

Dean nodded, silent eyes speaking volumes.

"Take care of Sammy, okay, Dean."

"Yeah, Dad," Dean promised.

"And mind Pastor Jim," John added as he caught Murphy´s somewhat panicked expression.

"Yes, sir," Dean replied automatically.

John stood up to talk to Jim. "I wouldn´t recommend any more candy. Sammy takes a bottle before bed. Dean knows where everything is."

The two Hunters stilled. They shook hands. An understanding passed between them.

As John went to the door, Dean whispered something in Sam´s ear. The toddler whipped his head around. "Bye Bye, Da Da. BYE BYE!" He said loudly, waving his little hand.

A faint smile came to John´s lips. "Bye Bye, Sammy. You be good, now." And the image of his boys, waving through the protective glass windows, kept John warm until the Imapala´s engine heated the car as the Hunter drove south east to join Joshua for the hunt.

* * *

Sam pressed his nose against the window, waving long after the impala had pulled away. A few more tears fell before Dean tried distracting him by suggesting they make a fort from the cushions of Jim´s couch while they watched cartoons. Sam held onto his scowl for a few more minutes. Dean suggested that they cheer him up with chocolate from the trick-or-treat bowl that both boys had spied immediately upon entering. Jim countered with a suggestion of hot chocolate and graham crackers. The offer was accepted.

The Winchester brothers amused themselves, eating chicken soup in the living room ´cause research papers and notes were spread over the kitchen table. When Sam burned his tongue, Dean got him an ice cube from the freezer and let him sit on his lap. At nine thirty, Dean gave Sam a bottle, ´cause Jim was answering the phone, which would continue to ring all night long. The five-year-old supervised as Jim hustled Sam into diaper and pjs. Dean was the one who negociated the tooth brush into his brother´s mouth and at ten the two of them were curled up in their fort, Bewitched reruns casting a light on their sleeping faces. Jim clicked off the TV, covered the two with extra blankets, and went back to digging through his notes and worrying about the friends and collegues, out there on the front lines. The porch light stayed on all night long, though it wasn´t for trick or treaters. To those who knew what to look for, it was a beacon, announing safe haven from the dark, cold night.

* * *

_November 1, 1984_

The Hunt had not gone well for John. Sure, he was limping home in one piece... which was more than he could say for his opponents. He tried to forget the sight of their scattered limbs. But Joshua had been mauled up pretty good. There were dark stains in the passenger seat, which would have to come out before he let Dean sit there again.

He was exhausted; not sleeping can do that to you. Emotionally, he was wrecked. The poltergst's terrible, unnaturally young face. It´s chilling scream still echoed in the silence of the night. He sat in the car, trying to gather himself before he faced the boys again.

The young father had aged rapidly in the last couple years and he had never felt older than when he climbed the porch steps slowly, letting himself in. The worst part was, no matter how hard he worked, the next day´s paper always had some new story. Some new death to investigate.

Jim had left a plate of food for him, which John popped into the microwave while simultaneously opening a couple beers. He ran tap water over his tired face, washed his hands. But there were somethings that just didn´t wash away.

As John took the hot plate for the microwave, he felt something watching him. He tensed and whirled, dropping the plate with a horrible crash. Dean stood silently in the doorway, eyes fixed on his father.

"Jesus, Dean," John cursed.

"Sorry," Dean apoligized, moving quickly to help John clean up the mess.

John, feeling a little unsteady, sunk into a kitchen chair while Dean dumped the broken shards into the trash. "Jesus," John said again, spent. He put his head in his hands.

Dean looked at his father with silent horror, silent sympathy. After a minute, when John didn´t move, Dean gently put his hand on John´s shoulder. "It´s okay, Dad," he said quietly. John looked up and was caught in the sincerity of Dean´s steady gaze.

"It´s O.K." The five year old repeated. They stood like that for a full minute. Dean offered all his strength to John, his father, his hero.

"It´s okay," Dean said one more time.

"Yeah," John responded, raw voice cracking, "yeah." Blinking, as if to wake himself, he looked at the young boy standing in front of him with spiderman pjs that were too small for him. "You should be in bed, Dean."

Dean nodded, backing away. "´Night Dad," he said before he padded down the hall.

"Good night, Dean," John said before he drained his first beer.

* * *

Author's note: Hope I didn´t bore you with the looong chapter. Just doing a bit of dissecting. What did you think? 


	18. All He's Got

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XVIII. All He's Got**

* * *

**_John_**_: Scares the hell out of me. You two are all I've got. But I guess we are stronger as a family..._

* * *

_November 12, 1984_

Dean was sick. John could tell by the glazed look in his eyes and the flush on the little boy's cheeks as the kindergartener sat with uncharacteristic stillness in front of the TV. Shining Time Station had never held the boys attention like this before; something was definitely up. John hoped it would pass quickly, 'cause Dean's unfailing ability to keep his little brother occupied for the afternoon, dragging the willing toddler into all kinds of interesting games and projects, was the only reason that John ever got any work done.

That's what he was trying to do when Sammy's uncertain call came from the doorway. "Dada?"

"What, Sam?" John tried not to let his frustration show in his voice.

"Dean's _sick_."

There was something in the voice that didn't bode well. John abandoned the research, scooping Sammy up as he strode purposely through the door. Dean was curled up in the corner of the couch, looking decidedly green.

"He trew up." Sam informed his father, ever so helpful.

Dean must have caught the look of horror on John's face because he quickly and miserably said "in the toilet, Dad. Don't worry."

Suddenly, John wished that hadn't been his first concern. _Oh, my poor little boy_, he thought.

"Good boy," he said, plopping Sam on the opposite end of the couch and taking a seat between his two boys, attention focused on the oldest. "Does your tummy feel better now?"

Dean shook his head miserably. John couldn't take the pain in the little boy's eyes. He let Dean snuggle up to his side, feeling the boy's feverish warmth and was worried about the shiver that accompanied it.

Sam was worried too and trotted over with his baby blanket. "Dis is for you, Dean." He said and John expertly smoothed the blanket down around his five year old son, favoring Sammy with an uncommon smile of approval. Sam didn't notice because his concerned little frown was focused with worry on his usually indestructible older brother. This behavior was very un-Dean like.

"Daddy?" Dean piped.

"Yeah, Dean?"

"I have to go to the bathroom." John quickly released Dean from the embrace and let him up. Dean scrambled over to the bathroom and puked up the rest of the contents of his stomach. John and Sam watched in dismay from the doorway. Little Sammy took a couple of steps towards his brother, though John quickly kept him away. The last thing he needed was_ two_ sick kids on his hands.

"Stay back, Sammy."

John felt the Daddy in him resurge, almost painfully. He went to his little boy, got him to wash his mouth out and spit the taste away. Once Dean was cleaned up, John gathered the boy in his arms. It was weird how light the boy was. Dean always seemed so _solid_. It was easy to forget he was just a kid himself. Easy until the little boy in question was clinging to his shoulder like he had as a baby. _It's okay, buddy, Daddy's here. _

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"I don't feel good," Dean said solemnly, resting his head on John's shoulder.

"No sh… kidding, sweetheart," John said, laughing a little as he kissed the little boy's hot forehead and carried him to the boys' room. He helped Dean change into his pjs. He brought a bucket over to the side of the bed, doubting there was anything left in the boy's stomach but just trying to be safe.

"You don't have to go to sleep, bud. I just want you to rest a little, okay?" John said comfortingly as he tucked the boy in. Dean didn't argue, despite the fact it was the middle of the afternoon. Not that Dean _usually_ argued with him, though not even the great John Winchester could get the boy to sit still for more than fifteen minutes, let alone take a NAP, on any normal day.

"Okay, Dad," Dean replied, burrowing in the extra blankets John had brought over. John put some books on the table beside the bed, patted Dean's head, and went out into the hall. He scooped a curious Sam up from the doorway in one arm, enduring the squirmy protest as he sweated over what to do next. It seemed like Dean was settling and, since the Winchester's health insurance had lapsed, there wasn't really a pediatrician on hand to check the boy out. There was a free clinic in Minneapolis, where Dean had got his shots before starting kindergarten, but John was holding that as a last resort. He thought it was more probable the kids would catch come debilitating disease there than to be cured from one.

Right, so, saltines and flat ginger ale would do, with children's Tylenol as soon as he could hold it down for the fever. Not that they had anything like that in the house. John called Sylvia Peterson, who kinda reminded John of his sister. She lived next door with her four kids and immediately dispatched the eldest to watch Dean while John ran to the store.

"Don't let anyone in," John warned the gum chewing 14-year-old girl who had the annoying habit of not looking him in the eye when he was talking and not snapping to attention when he gave an order. Argh. John resisted the urge to give her a stern lecture and send her back to her mother. He was only to be gone for twenty minutes and it wouldn't even be dark by the time he got back. Plus, beggars can't be choosers and the father was in a bit of a bind. He wasn't going to drag a sick kid and a toddler to the store when he had other options. He took off immediately, hoping that Sammy would be too preoccupied with the puzzle Alison was helping him with to get worked up over his father's absence.

Thirty minutes later, after fighting his way though annoying supermarket lines for electrolytes, chicken soup and Tylenol, John made his way back to the house. He ignored Alison's raised eyebrows at the 3 bucks he forked over. Sheesh, inflation these days!

Parking Sam in front of the TV, John went to check on Dean. "How ya feelin' there, kiddo?" he asked gently, rubbing a calloused hand over Dean's unruly hair. It was damp from sweat.

Dean managed a smile. "I'm okay, Daddy," he said, rather unconvincingly.

"Are you feeling any better?" John asked, worried.

"A little."

"Okay, well, I want you to drink this real slow." John handed Dean a sippy cup of apple juice. "I'll be back in a couple minutes."

John made sandwiches for him and Sammy (if the boy could get that messy from peanut butter and jelly, he didn't really want to know what the baby would do with chicken noodle soup, which was what he was heating up for Dean).

They never actually tried the soup 'cause eight minutes later Dean puked up the apple juice. John gave him a bath and tucked him into bed again after supervising much slower sips of flat ginger ale, which is what John's mom had always given them. By 9:00, Sam was asleep in front of some Disney movie, Dean was sleeping hard as well and John was wondering where his afternoon had gone. He tried to salvage his abandoned research, but knew he should pass this one off. He called Jim to hand off the research. The Pastor didn't seem too worried and said he would see that someone looked into it. John took that opportunity to bundle Sam into his pjs and put him down for the night before he did the dishes. Before going to bed himself, John disinfected the doorknobs, which was another thing he had learned from his mother. He thought about calling her, but it was already much too late and besides, she would probably die from the shock.

Instead he just tried to sleep and almost managed to drift off before Dean woke him up, in real pain again. John just held him for most of the night. Dean didn't cry, but he burrowed into John's shoulder. They sat together in the darkness.

"Dad?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, Dean?" John asked, gently rubbing his back.

"Will you sing the cowboy song?"

John nearly choked, 'cause singing wasn't something he had done for his kids since Mary died. But Dean, for once, wasn't thinking about John's feelings. The little boy was confined to his own head, dealing with the pain of the childhood illness and for once needing John to be the Dad that they both knew he could be—when his humor was right and the world wasn't quite so heavy. So John, very softly, started in a low growl:

_There is a young cowboy he lives on the range  
His horse and his cattle are his only companions  
He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons  
Waiting for summer, his pastures to change_

_And as the moon rises he sits by his fire  
Thinking about women and glasses of beer  
And closing his eyes as the doggies retire  
He sings out a song which is soft but its clear  
As if maybe someone could hear_

_Goodnight you moonlight ladies  
Rock-a-bye sweet baby James  
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose  
Wont you let me go down in my dreams  
And rock-a-bye sweet baby James_

_Now the first of December was covered with snow  
And so was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston  
Lord, the Berkshires seemed dream-like on account of that frosting  
With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go_

_There's a song that they sing when they take to the highway  
A song that they sing when they take to the sea  
A song that they sing of their home in the sky  
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep  
But singing works just fine for me_

Dean was asleep by the time John was finished, so John wasn't ashamed of his shining eyes. He held his baby boy close; his tough little soldier, his sensitive, sweet little boy.

_He's all I've got_, John thought. And, amazingly, it was enough for him.

* * *

Author's Note: Hope you liked it; I know this story is low on action. I think I'm about ready to wrap it up. Expect a couple more holiday themed chapters. Song is _Sweet Baby James_ by James Taylor. 


	19. Two Boys

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XIX. Two Boys**

* * *

_**Dean: **See, that attitude, right there. That is why I always got the extra cookie._

* * *

_November 14, 1984_

"I'm too sick to go to school, Dad," Dean said as convincingly as he could.

"Dad" raised his eyebrows at Dean's attempts to look pitiful. John noted gratefully that color had returned to his son's face and those eyes were twinkling with mischief, not fever. "Don't kid a kidder, boyo," John said with a smile and without sting. He gave Dean a gentle shove towards the bedroom. "Go get your gear before the bus comes."

Dean chortled and gave up his act, trotting obediently towards the bedroom. He paused to call, "Sammy's up!" from the door.

Sam, indeed, appeared in the doorway looking crusty eyed and cross.

"Hey there, buddy," John greeted easily, looking up from his paper.

"Up." Sam demanded, not quite ready for morning pleasantries.

"Not with that attitude," dismissed John.

"UP!" Sam screamed, actually stamping one padded foot in annoyance at his father's defiance. John pointedly ignored him, picking up his paper again.

Sam thought it would be a good time to plop down on his diapered behind and bawl, snot and tears running freely. John was a little shocked because Sam had been an angel for days, being sweet and helpful in caring for Dean.

John had been so focused on nursing Dean back to health that he had been almost blind to the younger boy. Thus, Sam's frustration and jealous had been festering and now that Dean was well again, Sam was more than anxious to have things return to the way they had been before, with his family responding to _his_ whims. The youngest was reasserting himself as the most needy among them in a loud and obnoxious manner.

John was less than impressed. "If you are going to cry, go to your room," John said firmly over the noise. Tantrums never worked on John Winchester and the little hot head was well acquainted with that fact. Didn't stop him from testing those boundaries from time to time. His wails got louder and a little kicking was added for dramatic effect. Sam was putting on a good show.

_This is ridiculous_, John thought in annoyance. The sound had him wanting to tear his hair out. With out ceremony, he scooped up the writhing toddler and took him to the boys' room, plopping him down on his bed. Sam wriggled and kicked a little more, but his voice was giving out and he hiccupped a little, his breath coming in shaky gasps. John got him out of the wet nighttime diaper, but sternly told him to stay in bed till he was ready to be civil.

Sam shed more tears at this, grumpily turning away from John's touch, crossing his arms and facing the wall. John left him to his mood.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean tried to comfort Sam.

"Let him alone, Dean," John ordered wearily. "Come over here and I'll tie your shoes."

Dean shrugged unhappily at Sam and turned away, quickly plopping his behind down on the carpet to pull on his sneakers. John smiled at his efforts and leaned down to do up the laces.

"I can do it, Dad," Dean said, a little shyly.

"You can?" John said, surprised.

Dean nodded, "yeah, they showed us in school." He shrugged to show it wasn't a big deal.

John supposed it wasn't that surprising, considering how quick Dean had picked up loading and shooting. Still, he was a little at a loss as Dean confidently subdued the frayed laces, pulling them into a deft bow.

Sam, whose crying had stopped when his audience lost interest, flipped over to his other side to watch with big eyes. He sucked his fingers in amazement at his brother's uncommon skill.

Dean's eyes sought approval in his Dad's face and John didn't disappoint. He gave Dean a proud smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He was struck by bittersweet memories.

The simple skill, just a year or two ago had Mary and Dean both in tears. She just didn't seem to be able to teach the four-year-old. Dean had gotten frustrated and cross. Mary had felt like a failure as a mother. John had laughed at their identical forlorn faces, bestowing hugs and drying tears. "He'll learn in his own time," he told his wife and they had never spoken about it again.

Now Dean had surged ahead, and Mary wasn't here to see his triumph.

Dean caught the sadness in his dad's eyes and turned anxious. John sucked in a tired breath and did his best to turn away from melancholy. "Your mom would have been so proud of you," he offered, pulling his son into a hug which reassured them both.

_We have each other_, John told himself, feeling Dean's arms tighten around him. Where did the little boy get such strength?

_He's grown up already_, John thought in a panic. Then he cursed himself as a sentimental fool. _No, he learned to tie his shoes, you idiot_, John corrected himself wryly. _He will always be my boy._

John let Dean pull away and sent him off, watching him from the window as he waited for the bus. Dean joked with one of the Peterson girls, seemed to be rehashing his illness in horrifying detail. The girl turned away in disgust, Dean flashed his trademark grin.

The yellow bus pulled up and as Dean went to climb aboard, his gaze went back to their disheveled little homestead and the little boy waved good-bye. John was startled to be caught in his attentions, but raised the curtain enough so that his one armed salute was visible. Dean disappeared onto the bus.

John was wondering how he could love anyone as much as that kid, when Sam came in, hair rumpled and attitude adjusted.

"I'm sorry, Da Da," he said, little eyes deadly earnest and fists twisting his nightshirt in anguish.

John plucked him up to show that all was forgiven, smoothing the unruly curls that were getting too long. Sam pressed his hot head to John's shoulder, content to be cuddled.

"You're a jealous little thing, aren't you?" John laughed and turned back to the kitchen with his precious burden. Sam didn't dignify the comment with a reply, but started sucking his thumb innocently.

John loved the moody little boy in his arms as much as he loved the valiant big brother on the bus. But there was no denying that the two boys were different, needing their dad in different ways. Dean rarely needed to be reprimanded, thirsty for approval. A sharp word had him bending over backward for redemption, slight praise bringing out his widest grins. Sam needed more discipline and more coddling and the child wasn't afraid to demand it.

John loved them both back with everything he had left and gave them all he had to offer. He fiercely held the broken family together, loving with a desperateness that made him tremble. He was nothing without his boys, just a hallowed out vengeance machine.

Speaking of vengeance... John got Sam situated with some breakfast, scolding him mildly for sucking his thumb, and picked up his work once more.

"Read Da Da!" Sam demanded, wiping his slimy fingers on the front of his shirt. At John's raised eyebrows, he quickly amended. "Read, pwease."

The child psychologists may have frowned at the reading material, obituaries being a morbid choice for impressionable young toddlers, but Sam just like to hear his dad's low rumble and he happily picked marshmallows from his lucky charms while John told him "stories" and made some notes in his large, leather-bound journal

* * *

Author's Note: This chapter was kind of my starting off point for why Sam and Dean have such different relationships with their father (though I think I hinted at it with earlier chapters). From what I know of things, there is a special bond forged in shared grief, especially between a parent and a child who mourn together. Sam was pretty much too young to share the grief that rocked Dean and John, so in some ways he is merely an observer in their pain (unfortunately he has to come to terms with it eventually and will in his adult life). In other ways, though, Sam is the center of John's universe. He's not what's holding it up, but what gives it meaning. Sam draws John out of the melancholy with his neediness, while Dean supports him in it with his understanding. Anyway, that may be too philosophical. Hope you enjoy and please review. 


	20. Little Soldier

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XX. Little Soldier  
**

* * *

_**Dean: **I don't know exactly what happened to your dad, but I know it was something real bad. I think I know how you feel._ _When I was your age, I saw something. Anyway…_

* * *

_ November 15, 1984_

"Dean Matthew Winchester! What do you think you're doing?"

_Uh oh, _that was the Mad Dad voice. Dean whirled guiltily, thrusting his arms behind his back and taking a step back as John fiercely slammed his journal shut and stowed it out of the boy's reach.

"You _know _you're not supposed to mess around with my things!" John reprimanded his son.

Dean steeled himself against the tears that prickled. Nothing hurt more than his father's critical voice, not even a spanking. He gulped at the thought and stammered an apology.

It was true. He _did_ know better than to touch Dad's work. He wasn't some baby like Sammy who didn't know enough not to touch the hot stove. And Dean had been burned alright. He had stared at the pictures of his old house until he realized what the gruesome shape actually _was _and then he had flipped the page, heart hammering and stomach queasy. Now he wanted to be held, he wanted Dad to be telling him that everything was going to be okay, not yelling at him for being naughty.

"What have you got there?" John demanded, noting that Dean was clutching something behind his back. The boy's face had drained of blood and John started to feel guilty about coming down so hard on him. Still, he held out his hand expectantly and Dean handed over the picture, unable to even look his father in the eye.

John glanced down at the photo and suddenly felt all of his righteous anger deflate. His wife's face smiled back from the glossy 4 by 6. Suddenly feeling overwhelmed, John took a seat in his desk chair, taking a breath to try and restore his equilibrium.

The anniversary of Mary's death had been a bitter pill to swallow, especially as he was no closer to finding his wife's killer. He had drowned his self loathing in cheap tequila, knowledge of just what Mary would say about _that _adding to his self torture. He still couldn't talk about her except to vow vengeance, still couldn't think about her without seeing her in flames.

Dean was doing his best to be strong for his father and John had been grateful; it was one less thing to deal with. But John knew the boy missed his mother. It was evident in the stiff lipped way that Dean watched the other kids in school and though John didn't lean in to hear, he knew what Dean whispered to Sam when the two curled close together at night. Babbling, Sammy would mention his "momma," though John knew that his youngest had only the vaguest physical memories of his mother. At those moments Dean's would look stricken and he would glance nervously at his father. John tried to keep his own expression smooth, but he knew that Dean saw the tensing of his jaw, the clouding of his eyes with pain.

They were alike in some things, these Winchester men. John saw his own hard jaw staring back at him from the five-year-old standing at attention, emotions reined in tight and eyes blazing with the secrets he shouldn't have to keep. _Dear God, who teaches a five-year-old to stand at attention?_

Dean was attuned to John's changing mood and the little soldier was unnerved by the confusion he was sensing from his usual stalwart father. "Dad?" he ventured. "I'm really sorry..." his voice faltered. "We were supposed to draw a picture... for school...and..."

"What Dean?" John asked gently.

Tears welled in Dean's eyes and he stubbornly wiped them away. _Have I taught him that it's not okay to cry? _John asked himself.

"I couldn't _remember_," Dean finally ground out, more tears coming unbidden and unwelcome to his young eyes. "I couldn't remember what she looked like." The boy's entire body trembled with suppressed sobs and John couldn't bear it any more. Instinctively he reached out to his son, gathering Dean in his arms. Dean stiffened at first, trying to retain his composure, but then something broke inside as the little boy remembered what it felt like to be held by his Daddy.

"Hey, hey, hey," John murmured into the boy's hair. Dean clung to him for a moment and gradually the tears stopped. Daddy wiped his face with a handkerchief and had him blow his nose. Dean was glad that Sammy was taking a nap so little brother couldn't see what a big baby he was being. He was supposed to be a big boy now, not some dumb crybaby. He squirmed out of his Dad's lap, embarrassed.

John felt like he was losing something as the warmth of his son's weight was lifted. "Dean, why didn't you _ask_ me for a picture?"

Dean swallowed. "I didn't know if we h-had any."

_Oh, baby, I didn't throw _everything _away_, John wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat. He handed Dean the picture. "Do you want to hold on to this one?" he asked, knowing he should have thought of that much, much earlier.

Dean nodded mutely, gripping the picture tightly in his hot hands. John patted his head and forced a smile. They both took up their burdens again.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"I still don't want you messing around with my things."

Dean ducked his head and nodded. "Yes, sir."

John smiled and ruffled his hair, then pulled him into another hug. Dean didn't resist.

"Hey Dad?" said the boy, who seemed to be willing to play the part of a five-year-old for the time being.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Can we go the park when Sammy wakes up?"

John grinned, feeling something like relief. _This_ he could handle. "Yeah, kiddo. You think he's ready to throw a ball around?"

Dean gave it serious consideration. "Maybe if you throw it real gentle," he said judiciously.

John smiled again and nodded. "I could probably manage that."


	21. Biggest Fears

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XXI. Biggest Fears  
**

* * *

_**John:** You_ are_ my children. I'm trying to keep you safe._

* * *

_November 16, 1984_

Dean flopped down in the front seat next to John, letting out some of the pent up energy from sitting at a desk too long.

"How was school?" John asked, as he pulled away from the curve. _That was what parents were supposed to ask, right?_

"It s- was icky." Dean replied unenthusiastically.

John tried not to grin. Yep, that was pretty much how he remembered it, too. At least nowadays they weren't allowed to hit you with rulers. "Yeah, well. Only twelve and a half more years," he teased.

At Dean's look of mute horror, John chuckled and reached over to affectionately ruffle the boy's hair. "Thanksgiving's coming up," he commented, having received a call from his sister as a reminder. "Do you want to go to visit Aunt Kate?"

"No." It was emphatic enough to bring another grin to John's face, but not enough that he felt the need to reprimand.

"Yes!" Sammy said from the back, but more to be contrary than anything else. He couldn't really remember his aunt too well. They hadn't been back to Kansas in months. His father and brother ignored him, but Sam didn't notice because he was distracted by dog he saw out the window and was straining in his carseat to get a better view.

John's sister was great, really. It was just that she pushed a little too hard, didn't really know what to do with her mentally unsound, soldier-boy brother and his reserved, grieving son. Her own boys were enough to deal with and John knew Dean felt a little lost among their hollering and bickering. _Okay, so that's out_, John thought with relief.

"Dean! look!" Sam broke in, pointing a chubby finger at the crossing sign for the train tracks. "Choo Choo!"

Dean glanced out the window and murmured his acknowledgement, "Yep, it's a train track." Sam didn't notice his lack of enthusiasm, but grinned happily.

"What about Pastor Jim's?" John asked, returning to his earlier line of questioning. 

"Yes!" Sam voted again, louder this time. But Dean's scowl deepened at that, too.

"What?" John demanded with a little irritation, not understanding.

"Can't we stay with _you_?" Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper.

_I'm not gone that much,_ John thought, alarmed at the panic in Dean's plea. "Yeah, kiddo. We'll spend it together," he placated and tried to pretend that he hadn't been planning on checking out the fires in Chicago. _The reporter had been pretty convinced it was just a simple case of arson. Probably it was nothing. _While he couldn't quite convince himself to drop it altogether, John knew that it could wait. There were other nasties which wouldn't require more than a night and maybe a late morning away from his kids. He could stick around for his son.

Dean rewarded him with a relieved smile and lapsed into contented silence.

"Hey Dad?" he asked after a moment.

"mm hmm?"

"Can I spend the night at Josh's house on Friday?"

John was surprised. While Dean seemed to derive some enjoyment from telling him about how what's-his-name made himself sick by eating glue or how some kid in his class had laughed so hard milk came out his nose, John had never gotten the impression that Dean had any real friends at school. And weren't they _way_ too young for sleep-overs. The thought made his blood run cold.

Dean was uncannily good at reading his father's silence, 'cause he huffed a little. "I'm not a _baby_, Dad," he insisted, bottom lip protruding just the slightest.

John raised his eyebrows slightly at the tone, trying to think on his feet. He didn't know that Dean's protest was mainly an act.

Dean and Josh got on fairly well. Dean liked to play kickball during recess and they were the two best players from kindergarten. Even the big kids picked them early for teams. Josh had invited him over yesterday when Miss Olson blew the whistle for them to line up. Their faces was still flushed with the exertion and the freezing cold air. A Minnesota cold snap had dropped a little snow and then frozen the city over. Dean's ragged tennis shoes did little to protect his feet and his jacket was just a little too thin for the weather. He didn't complain, though, just ran hard during recess to keep the blood flowing.

Dean had been surprised at the invite and couldn't help a breaking into a shy grin. He wasn't sure if that would be fun, though. Dean didn't like it when John went away for the whole night and even then he had Sammy, who would cuddle up to him at night, and Pastor Jim or somebody to take care of them.

He had forgotten to ask yesterday and Josh had given him a hard time after kickball. "What? Are you _scared_? Don't be such a baby! My brother has sleep overs all the time! Come on, it'll be fun!"

Dean wasn't so sure about that, but he DEFINITELY wasn't a baby. "I just FORGOT, okay," he defended. "I'm sure my dad'll let me come. I just have to ASK him," he said with a nonchalant tone which belied the drop in his stomach.

"Okay, okay. But if you can't come, I'm gonna invite Pete," Josh threatened.

Dean tried not to be intimidated, but now he had something to prove. Dad HAD to let him go.

"Just let me think about it, bud," John stalled. Dean nodded a bit unwillingly, but let it go. He knew dad would definitely shut him down if he tried to push the matter.

* * *

John finally capitulated, feeling a little guilty about the fact that Dean spent more time with a gun in his hands than he did a baseball glove. John knew the way he was raising Dean was different, that the boy was missing out on some things. Still, he wanted Dean strong, well-trained. No son of his was growing up weak. There was something about Dean's quiet intensity, though, that made John think maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing for the five-year-old to get some friends his own age. He didn't reach out to practically anyone, barely spoke when they were in public. 

So John grudgingly gave his assent and when Josh's mom called later, he pretended to be a normal dad (or as close an approximation as he could manage). He neatly deflected questions about his personal life and answered in vague generalities about his Thanksgiving plans. Later he discretely checked out the neighborhood and, when it appeared safe enough, he dropped Dean off at the appointed time.

"Why do dey take their _shoes_ off?" Sam asked skeptically from his perch on John's hip.

Josh's mom smiled at that, which only seemed to enhance the awkwardness. "Hello there," she cooed at Sam, who quickly became shy and hid his face in his dad's shoulder. John patted him absentmindedly on the back.

Dean stripped to his bare feet, not wanting anyone to see the holes in his shoes, while John stomped the snow from his dirty boots carefully before stepping gingerly onto the carpet.

"Be good, Ace." John ordered, dropping a self-conscious paternal kiss on the boy's shaggy head. He was surprised when Dean's arms tightened around his family, in a brief but intense hug. It was the first sign that the boy was nervous about the night ahead.

"Everything's gonna be okay." John reassured, "I'll be back at 0900 tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Dean said gratefully. Dad had a tendency to get distracted; Dean didn't want John to forget him. John winked kindly and Dean returned with a wane smile. _Had he actually _wanted _to do this? _Dean asked himself incredulously.

"BYE, Dean," Sammy broke in, giving Dean a clumsy hug that made the boy's face go beat red, though he returned it gently. However the older boy disentangled himself quickly, feeling Josh's mom watching them tenderly. He deftly burying his insecurities by giving Sammy a reassuring grin and allowing Josh to pull him away to play video games. John felt a little bereft, but quickly bid his goodbyes to Josh's mother and slipped out the door with Sam.

* * *

"Time for bed, Sammy," John said to the yawning toddler later that evening. He had set the kid in front of the TV, hoping Sam would fall asleep on his own, but it was already 9:30 and the boy's eyes were still round as saucers. Every now and again a little fist would rub away a sleepy twitch in the eye, but he showed no signs of nodding off. 

"Come on, bud." John encouraged as Sam looked at him with unfocused eyes.

The little eyes narrowed and Sam shook his head, protesting.

"Yes." John insisted firmly, body language getting stern.

"But where'z Dean?" Sam asked, voice rising in alarm.

"He's spending the night with a friend, Sammy," John explained as patiently as he could. If Sammy got upset now it would be while before he could get the kid down and there was still a pile of clippings he was planning on going through that night. He thought he might have a pattern and he wanted to do some cross-referencing.

Sam, it seemed, had other plans for the evening. Tears started dripping down his chubby cheeks. "I want Dean," he all but wailed.

"Come on, Sammy," John coaxed. "Daddy needs you to be a big boy and get your teeth brushed."

"I want DEAN to do it!" Sam argued.

John caught himself before he bellowed, "Dean's not HERE, buddy!" Sam was panicked enough, already.

John was honestly at a loss. He hadn't even _thought_ about how Sam might react to the situation. Well, he was paying the price for his lack of foresight and general failing as a father now. Sam's protests were starting to get a little frantic.

"Come on, Sam. You're _just fine_." John tried to reason. Frustration made his voice harder than it needed to be and when he reached out to physically gather the little guy into his arms, Sam arched impressively and John nearly dropped him. "Sammy!" he barked in fear, but the boy wasn't at all phased and continued to cry and struggle weakly, though John held him firmly, trying to decide what to do next.

He gave the kid a gentle bounce to distract him, but Sam wasn't in the mood to be distracted.

"NO!" Sammy reprimanded, though he was now clinging to John's shoulder and not struggling anymore. John thought he could feel Sam's resolve weakening and walked with him a little, murmuring into his ear. While they were weaning Sam from the bottle and moving into sippy cup phase, John went ahead and warmed a little milk for the baby. While Sam sucked down the comforting liquid, John got him changed ran a wet wipe over the sticky face and hands.

Sam stilled a little, noticing that he had his father's full attention. It was a bit of a rarity in his young life, and, while he still missed Dean, the baby found he rather liked the feel of his father's expert, gentle hands.

John breathed a sigh of relief as Sam calmed. He kissed the baby's brow appreciatively and moved to the door. Sam immediately started crying and slipped out of bed to follow him. They didn't have crib, because the boy's ended up together during the night, anyway. John hadn't missed the thing until he turned to return the stubborn toddler to his bed.

"Lie down and go to sleep, Sammy," he ordered as gently as he could, but Sam was having none of it.

"DON'T go. DADDY pleeeeeese," he said, clinging to his father as John put him down on the bed.

"Shhhh, Shhh. I'm right here." John murmured, alarmed at the note of panic in the cry. He rubbed Sam's back gently, but the sobs didn't ease. Afraid the boy was going to make himself sick, John picked him up again, bewildered. Gradually, Sam's breath calmed, but his little fists clung fiercely to John's collar. "_What_ is going on with you?" John murmured, levering himself onto the bed with his legs in front of him and holding his son close.

He wasn't really expecting an answer, but when his youngest sniffled, "I want DEAN," John realized he was in for a long night. He hadn't truly appreciated how much Dean took care of his little brother until something like this reminded him. Dean was the one who usually got the kid ready for bed. All John did was bestow a couple of good-night kisses and maybe soothe the occasionally night terror. Dean was the one who held the boy close through the night, whispered Sam off to sleep.

John remembered how Dean had been at this age, how his first born had clung to him before bed and how so many times John had held him until they were both ready to drift off. Sure, there had been the usual tears and later Dean had gotten stubborn about it, but John knew the difference between a little comfort crying and those terrified sobs.

"Oh, Sammy," he sighed, worrying. The man who had been Dean's daddy was not the man that so clumsily was bringing up the boys now. Sam seemed to take what he could get. He nestled into his father's shoulder, thumb finding his pert little mouth and a little shaky breath indicating that he was drifting off. John sat with Sam for a long while, lost in remembering how the boy had cried so desolately for Mary. "You'll _never_ go through that again," John promised fiercely into his son's ear.

When Sam finally relaxed into a deep sleep, John lay him gently down on the bed. Sam whimpered, but didn't wake. John quickly turned off the lights and checked the wards, sparing a moment to panic about Dean. He missed the boy, but it was more than that. John had lost too much to be casual about the dangers that were out there. He spared a moment to pray for his baby; he and God had a shaky relationship at best, but there were times when even John Winchester would put away his pride. He knew that the deep pit in his stomach was irrational, but suddenly he regretted his decision to let Dean go for the night. In this witching hour of the night he didn't give a damn about Dean growing up to be well- adjusted. He wanted his kid _here_, where he could keep him safe.

Hearing Sammy snuffling in the bed, reaching out for the comforting warmth of his brother, John quickly kicked off his boots and jeans to slide in beside the tiny, trembling body. Sammy immediately relaxed into him and John smiled at the boy's glorious, living warmth.

"Good night, Sammy," he whispered.

* * *

John woke to the ungodly ringing of the phone. His eyes flew open in the dark and his blood ran cold. Good news could wait until morning. Oh God. 

He clumsily detached himself for Sam, fumbling for the phone.

"H-hello?" he asked nervously, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It was 2:30 in the morning.

"Yes, hello. This Maureen Coleman, Josh's mother," came the strained voice on the other line. Oh God.

"What's wrong? What happened?" John was immediately drenched in sweat and he swayed a little, catching himself on the door frame. He couldn't lose that kid. Please God.

"About 30 minutes ago, I went to check on the boys and Dean wasn't in his bed. We got everyone up and searched through the entire house, but we haven't found him. The dead bolt on the door was unlocked from the inside and his stuff is gone. Neither of our boys knew anything about what had happened. They're fairly light sleepers... I..." she faltered. "We called you as soon as we were sure he wasn't in the house. George, my husband, is out checking the streets." She paused, supposedly expecting him to respond.

John trembled violently, before swallowing bile. He couldn't assume the worst. "I'm on my way over," he said shortly. He had to take a look himself. He _would _find his son.

* * *

Author's note: I absolutely promise to update tomorrow! Don't be mad. The chapter was getting really long and I thought this was...um... a good stopping point? 


	22. Never Again

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XXII. Never Again**

* * *

**_Meg :_**_ You see, he has one weakness.  
**Dean :** What's that?  
**Meg : **You. He let's his guard down around his boys. Lets his emotions cloud his judgment._

* * *

_November 17, 1984_

John rubbed a hand though his hair, letting his emotions sink to the bottom, while he spurred himself into action. It was a technique he had learned in the war. He could be deadly effective, even when he couldn't find himself in his inner fog.

He grabbed his kit, double checking for supernatural deterrents as well as the old-fashioned stuff that could do a lot of damage on pretty much anything. Pausing to painfully empty his stomach in the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He had looked better. There was an edge about him that he was going to have to try to hide around the Colemans. He consciously schooled his features, feeling completely disassociated from what he was doing.

He picked up Sammy, grabbing a pacifier and a couple extra blankets. _It was so cold outside_. His heart throbbed painfully. Sam murmured in his sleep and woke when they walked outside. Big eyes took in his father's face and seemed to _know _that now was not a good time to make a fuss. He clutched his father's jacket, whining low in his throat when John put him in the carseat.

Before John lowered himself into driver's seat, his sharp eyes took in the silent street in front of them. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary under the harsh light of the street lamps. His breath made clouds of steam in the air and he licked dry lips. _Where are you, Dean? _If someone hurt that boy... John couldn't even think about what he would do. Something dark and violent seemed to be caged in his chest and he knew he couldn't hold it back forever.

John kept an eye out for anything out of the usual on the drive over, but admittedly there wasn't too much he could see from the car. Visibility was limited because it had started to snow. He pulled in sharply next to the suburban house. It was the only one blazing with light down the whole dark street.

John left most of his stuff in the car and carefully climbed the steps with Sammy in one arm. He wasn't exactly sure what to do with his youngest. Obviously, he couldn't do his job with Sammy hanging onto one side, but neither was he particularly inclined to let the kid out of his sight. His instincts were not bothered by Maureen, who seemed haggard and worried when she answered the door, but paranoia had served him well in the past and he wasn't really in a trusting mood.

Sensing John's indecision, Sammy clung stubbornly to his father, glaring at Maureen when she offered to take him. Josh and his brother, Michael, were sitting together in the family room and Maureen had popped in _Star Wars _to keep them occupied. They were looking at the screen like zombies, huddling together under a large, soft blanket.

John, making up his mind, turned Sammy so they were looking into each other's eyes. Sammy took his thumb out of his mouth for the serious talk. "Where is Dean?" Sammy asked solemnly, unaware of the dismay his question caused among the adults.

"Sammy, I have to go find your brother. I want you to stay here and be a good boy. Can you do that for me?"

Sam didn't really understand what was going on and he didn't want his dad to leave, even if he was going to go get Dean.

"Everything is going to be okay, Sammy," John encouraged. "Dean needs me right now."

"Okay, Daddy," Sam said, somehow seeming to accept that, even if he didn't really understand. He let himself be transferred into Maureen's arms, noticing that she was soft and cuddled him tenderly. When he started to cry, she crooned to him and gave him a bottle. It wouldn't have been bad at all if the little guy wasn't so scared by his father's strange intensity and his brother's absence.

* * *

Maureen Coleman was feeling a little shaky, herself. She sat there, holding Sammy, while John Winchester charged up the stairs to investigate the boy's bedroom, digging single-mindedly through their belongings. Well, she supposed he knew what he was doing. He was a private investigator, after all. Weird, 'cause she could have sworn Dean said he worked in a garage.. George gave her a worried glance and she tried to reassure him with a smile. They were both feeling terribly responsible. How could this have happened? 

"We should probably put some salt down on the steps." Maureen prompted; there would be more people trudging up and down, especially once the police got there. She didn't want anyone tripping on the ice.

"I couldn't find the rock salt," George answered hollowly.

"It's in the pantry." Maureen supplied testily.

"No. It's not."

Maureen rolled her eyes and jerked open the door. George was right, the bag was missing from its usual place. "Oh, well," she conceded, "there may be some sand in the basement."

* * *

Dean had taken it, when he slipped from the silent, scary house. He knew that salt would protect him from spirits. He was wearing his knapsack and shivered the cold air pricked at the bare skin on his face and neck. The little boy's eyes were resolved, though, as he bravely entered dark yard. 

Josh's house was fun. They had lots of video games and movies and they had played with Josh's army men for an hour before Mrs. Coleman had called them for dinner. She cooked even better than Pastor Jim! It kinda made Dean miss his momma, the way that Mrs. Coleman had made all the boys eat their vegetables, so they could have cookies and milk for dessert.

During the day the house seemed warm and inviting. Mrs. Coleman had Josh lend Dean a sweatshirt and clean socks towards the evening, worried that he might get cold running around barefoot. Dean had grinned shyly, grateful for the fuzzy warmth and then he and Josh had taken turns shocking each other after building up electrostatic on the carpet upstairs.

Towards bedtime, though, the house got quiet and unfamiliar. Josh's daddy got them all tucked into bed, but there was no Sammy to hold while he told them a silly story. Then Mrs. Coleman came in and Dean had to turn away from her when she started talking about angels. He stared hard at the wall to stop the tears from leaking out.

"Honey, is something wrong?" Mrs. Coleman asked gently. He wanted to tell her that there wasn't any such thing as angels. That's what his mom had believed and now she was dead, 'cause no stupid angels had protected her. But he couldn't look at her, 'cause he knew he would start crying, so closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. She ran a warm hand over his forehead, but let him be.

Then she left and there it was only him and Josh and Michael in the room. Dean tried to ignore Josh and Michael's whispering, but it made him think of what he would have said to Sammy if he had been there. He would've told Sammy about the time when he and Momma and Daddy went to the park and momma had made sandwiches but Dad fed them to the ducks, so they bought hot dogs instead. He remembered how Dad had helped him feed the ducks and how Momma had squished him to her. That was when she was big with Sammy in her, back when she couldn't stop smiling. That's how happy she was that Sammy was coming. Dean didn't think he could wait till tomorrow to tell Sammy about the ducks.

_Why had he wanted to go on this stupid sleep over, anyway? _The Colemans were very nice, but they didn't know about the monsters. Only hunters like him and daddy knew. It was their job to kill the bad things. A strange clanking sound made Dean wish all the more that Dad was there. He was sure any second the ghostly presence would come and slit their throats, like that poltergeist had to that family in Alabama. They hadn't even put down salt rings! They were gonna die for sure.

So, Dean made a run for it. He snuck down the hall like a shadow, pausing to hide from the suspicious-looking coat rack and then slipping into the kitchen to find the salt. He climbed used a chair to reach the carving knife from the wooden block on the counter. Dad started training him to knife fight last week, but made it absolutely clear that Dean was not to practice on his own. EVER. Well, he wasn't practicing now, was he? He had to have a way of protecting himself, especially if the monsters came for him.

He paused for a second at the front door. Dad had told him never to go out after dark by himself. Dean felt a twinge in his stomach that told he might be getting himself into trouble. The little boy was resolved, however. As he moved down the shadowy steps, Dean held the knife tightly in his hands, glancing up nervously when he heard the winter wind rustle in the barren branches.

Shivering and at the point of exhaustion, Dean wondered if he could find his way home. It had only taken twenty minutes to dive over in the Impala. Surely he could retrace the steps? Why did everything look so different in the dark?

* * *

After satisfying himself that there was no trace of a struggle in the bedroom, John went out to the yard. Taking a flashlight from his kit, John picked out a few scuffed tracks in the thin veneer of snow, but none that fit his five-year-old's little print. Dean had been gone before the snow had started to fall. 

After three minutes searching the grounds, John found a clumsy ward etched into the bark of the tree outside at about 5 year old chest level. John ran his fingers into the groove. He smiled without humor. Dean still couldn't read much at all, wasn't even interested in learning, but he was fascinated with these designs. The drawings he brought home were a mix of gory battle scenes, mythical creatures and intricate signs to ward off evil. It didn't take a genius to deduct that his kid had been out in the yard, drilling the ward into the tree in the middle of the night. _You're doing a hell of a job with these kids_, John bit at himself.

He looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of the little boy. Without any other leads, John climbed into the Impala. He crept along, probing the streets with his sharp eyes, hoping for a miracle. Panic gripped him and he kept imagining Dean lying in a ditch somewhere or at the mercy of some sicko or supernatural ghoul. _Mary, please help me find him_, he prayed. _We just gotta find him soon, _John's mantra continued.

There were tears in his eyes when John caught a glimpse of Dean's stalwart little form. At least he was heading in the right direction. _How could this have happened?_ John asked himself, blaming himself. He pulled over quickly, wrenching open the door and yelling the boy's name. Dean jerked like a frightened bunny, but turned towards the voice.

"Daddy?" he said weakly. John slapped the glinting knife from the boy's cold hands, thanking all that was holy that he had been the one to find the boy like this. Before Dean could react to the severe greeting, John gathered his son into a crushing embrace. The boy was shivering from cold and exhaustion. John covered him with his coat and squeezed the little boy to his chest. Dean held on fiercely, tears welling.

"What the _hell _were you doing, Dean?" he rasped.

Dean flinched at his father's harsh tone. "I'm sorry," he whimpered.

John couldn't bring himself to speak as he tucked Dean into the front seat and cranked up the heat. The little boy retreated into himself while John tried to remember how to breath normally.

It was almost five o'clock in the morning and the eastern sky was starting to burn when they pulled up in front of the Coleman's again. A police car was parked out front. Dean's eyes widened as he saw it and he glanced apprehensively at his father. Neither of them were particularly eager to face the worried assembly gathered in the front room of the suburban home. If Sammy hadn't been inside, John would have just driven away from the whole goddamn town.

He nodded for Dean to climb out of the car and Dean obeyed without question. The little boy slipped his hand into John's as they climbed the icy steps. John held back, only loosening his grip when he heard Dean gasp in pain.

"Oh, thank god," Maureen murmured when she saw Dean. She had tears in her eyes. John explained quickly, without mentioning the fact that Dean had lifted the Coleman's best carving knife or accounting for the rune Dean had left in the oak out front. Dean was made to apologize and ducked his head at the lectures from Mr. Coleman and the policemen. The cops soon filed out, smiling encouragingly at Dean's woebegone face. A sleeping Sammy was transfered to his father's shoulder and the Winchesters extricated themselves. John was sure he was never giving his permission for a sleepover ever again. There would be no more toeing the line. Nothing like this could _ever_ happen again.

The ride home was silent. John parked in front of their house and took a moment to give thanks that the nightmare had ended. He carried Sammy inside, placing him on the bed and tenderly covering him with his soft blue blanket before taking his eldest firmly by the hand and leading him into the living room.

"Don't you _ever_ scare me like that again," he said in a low voice, before hammering a few lessons about obedience and common sense into Dean's tender behind.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," Dean wailed pitifully.

John held the sobbing boy on his lap until the tears dried, then gave him a warm bath. When Dean was back in clean jammies, the older boy slipped into bed with Sammy while John started packing their boxes. It was time to move on. In one night their frail illusion had shattered. John couldn't face the mistakes he had made here with his boys. He had nearly lost the only thing that made his life worth living. Moving on was easier than trying to pick up the pieces.

* * *

Author's note: hmm... that was a really hard chapter to write for me. Hope it didn't come out too awkwardly. Thanks for all your reviews and I'd love to hear what you think.  



	23. Open Road

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XXIII. Open Road  
**

* * *

_Dean: How far to Red Lodge?_

_Sam: Uh, about another three hundred miles._

_Dean: Good._

* * *

_November 17, 1984_

John was nearly packed when Sam toddled out, demanding help with the potty. The boys had slept all morning and John let them, relief at having his son back safe lifting his spirits and the prospect of a change in scenery satisfying some of his restless spirit. Dean emerged soon afterwards, glancing apprehensively at his father as his sleepy eyes readjusted to the bright afternoon sun. From John's perspective, last night's unpleasantness was forgotten. They had dodged a bullet, but all that was over now. He ignored his son's quiet reserve, absentmindedly patting the boy's head to let him know that storm had passed; he was forgiven and everything was back to normal.

Dean grinned shyly, then "read" the comics to Sammy while John gilled cheese sandwiches.

"That's not breakfast," Dean commented, breaking the easy silence.

"Well, sleepyhead, you slept through breakfast," John teased gently, unable to resist tickling the boy.

"I did?" Dean giggled, nearly falling out of his chair as he squirmed away.

"mm hmm" John murmured in assent.

Sam picked up on the fun, laughing and attaching himself enthusiastically to John's pant leg, prompting John to scoop him up and kiss him soundly. Sammy returned the favor, putting his little hands up to touch his dad's whiskers. "Itchy," he giggled. John responded by nuzzling the boy and making him laugh and protest loudly. John felt happier than he had in a long time as he plunked his youngest down at the table and turned to flip the sandwiches.

The boys thoughtfully chewed on their lunch, avoiding the burned bits and steering clear of the crusts, while John explained that they were heading out. Dean nodded his assent, not seeming at all upset by the prospect of leaving. Sensitive to his father's mood, Dean detected John's light-heartedness and simply trusted that they would be alright. Sam was simply oblivious, happily watching Batman with Dean while John finished packing the boy's stuff.

The Winchester's piled into the Impala as soon as their meager belongings had been deposited with military efficiency into the trunk. Most of the stuff they left in the house; it didn't belong to them anyway. John felt no pang of guilt at dodging their overdue rent; he knew they wouldn't be back through anytime soon. For now, he felt free. Their plan was to head down to see a guy he knew from way back. Two years ago, John would have told you Bobby Singer was great guy, but an oddball and not quite right in the head. He knew better now and thought it was about time he went down to reconnect with his old army buddy.

As they pulled onto the highway, Sam was playing some game with his fingers in the back seat and Dean enthusiastically answered John's slow smile from the front. John winked at him and switched on the radio, looking forward to the open road.

Traveling with young kids is not always easy, but the boys drifted off as the sun set, just a little while after they got on the road. Sammy's fingers quit dancing and migrated to his mouth, the lull of the their gentle motion putting him to sleep. Soon after Dean's head started nodding and John didn't even try to hide an indulgent grin at his son's fluttering lashes and stifled yawns which were converted into gentle snoring. John's sharp eyes watched the deserted highway, alert for that ever present threat that lurked just outside the warm interior of the Impala.

When he was too tired to trust himself at the wheel or against the world's shadows, John pulled into a hotel, waking Dean up and putting him on duty. Dean blinked sleepily, but nodded seriously as John ordered him to watch out for Sammy. John checked in, trying to remember the balance on his credit card, then grabbed a duffel from the back before sending Dean to open the room and scooping Sammy up into his arms. The little boy was hot against his shoulder, murmuring unhappily as John hoisted him. _He's getting big! _John noted at the boy's hefty weight. He smiled, still content, and kissed the boy's warm forehead.

Dean had already flopped onto the bed when the father got to the door. He had flipped on the TV and was watching with that glazed over expression that meant he was half asleep. John set the bag down and dug out their drop kit and the boys' pjs. "Go brush your teeth, kiddo," he murmured softly to Dean, laying Sammy down on the bed and pulling off the toddler's shoes. As Dean went to obey, John turned the volume way down on the TV and gave the room a quick once over. He double locked the doors, rigging the doors and windows to deter intruders. He set up basic wards and put his loaded gun in the drawer beside his side of the bed.

When he was satisfied with the security of the room, he maneuvered Sam into his PJs, using wet wipes to remove the major smudges from the boy's cherubic face. The boy was getting too big for the soft blue sleeper. Chubby flesh poked out on the wrists and ankles. Sammy's eyes flickered open a little, but he stubbornly curled up again, putting his fingers in his mouth once more. John had long ago seen the last of the pacifiers, which always seemed to get dropped into cracks, trampled, or lost. Sam had learned to adapt and John had been less than consistent about discouraging thumb sucking. He knew it would be a struggle to break Sam of the habit. Experimentally, John pulled the sticky fingers from Sam's mouth, which immediately turned down in annoyance, though the baby didn't wake up. As soon as John released the little arm, the fingers found there way back and Sam sucked loudly, letting out a sign of relief. John gave up for the night, putting Sam in the middle of the bed, propped up on a pillow while he went to check on Dean.

"What have I said about climbing on the counters?" John demanded as he entered the small bathroom to find Dean hoisting himself up via the toilet.

"I couldn't _reach_," Dean protested, jumping down guiltily. John winced as the boy's precious head nearly missed the ceramic edge of the sink. John hoisted Dean up so he could rinse his brush. While Dean was diligently brushing, John ran a wet washcloth over the boy's grimy face and hands. John wondered if he had accidentally shrunk their laundry when Dean's clothes too left a good deal of skin exposed at the wrists. But then again, he couldn't remember the last time they had been shopping, so maybe it was time to hit Goodwill. Sending Dean off to bed with a gentle shove (refusing to negotiate TV time, and meeting with only half hearted, sleepy protests), John took a hot shower, shaving away his long stubble. The hot water took the edge off.

He left the light on in the bathroom as he crossed the room, paranoia prompting one more circuit and a muttered blessing. The boys were sleeping lightly when he slipped into bed. The mattress sagged under his weight, causing Sammy to slide into him, Dean shifting to follow. John found he didn't mind and whispered good night while settling Sammy more comfortably and listening to Dean's quiet breath.

* * *

Sammy woke him up, whimpering and clinging to his shirt a couple of hours later. The boy's eyes were shining in the dark room and John, blinking away sleep, instinctively felt for a fever. 

"What is it, Sammy?" He asked roughly, noting that the boy's sleeper was soaked with sweat.

Sam gasped a couple of times, before whimpering "Daddy monster."

"What? Where's the monster Sammy?" John's sharp eyes didn't detect any movement in the room, there was no threat that he could distinguish, but he held the baby protectively in one hand as he reached for his gun.

"In my sweep," Sammy clarified, still overwrought. "Bad dweam."

John frowned and waited a couple heart beats before putting down the gun and carrying Sammy over to the bathroom. "It's just a dream, Sammy. Daddy's here now," he comforted, stripping the boy from the soiled sleeper and helping him use the toilet before cleaning him up a little and putting him into one of Dean's clean t-shirts. It dwarfed the kid, but seemed to calm him. Sam curled up on John's shoulder clinging to the fabric at John's collar. John held him, quietly pacing the small room, remembering other nights when he had walked Sam. It had been a while.

"Can we go home?" Sam said pleadingly.

"Shhh," John whispered, not knowing how to answer. _That wasn't _home_, Sammy. _John thought, nonplussed,_ that was just..._he didn't know what it was, but it wasn't home. Home was where you could let your guard down, where you felt safe. John hadn't felt safe since Mary died.

They couldn't afford to let their guard down.

They could never go home.

"Shhhh," he said again, and Sammy quieted.

John gently stroked Sam's back, trying to be enough for his son.


	24. Love

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XXIV. Love  
**

* * *

_Dean: ...you've got one advantage that Max didn't have._

_Sam: Dad? Because Dad's not here, Dean. _

_Dean: No, me. As long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you._

* * *

_November 21, 1984_

John called Bobby from a rest stop outside Omaha, setting the boys free to stretch their legs in the picnic area. There was a cold wind blowing and John thought about adding a couple layers to their thin forms. He kept a close eye on them while the phone rang a couple of times. Bobby picked up.

"Johnny?" He said in surprise once John IDed himself. "Been hearing a lot about you. Int'resting stories, too."

"Well, guess I better set the record straight, then. Got a place for me and my boys to crash tomorrow?"

"Well, it's no four seasons, but you're welcome to it. Always got room for a couple more mangy mutts."

"Nice to know where I stand," John responded dryly. "See you tonight."

John hung up and continued watching the boys for a moment, Dean was staying near Sammy, protective of his little brother who milled about on his shorter legs. Sam stopped occasionally and picked up a stray leaf, carefully moving it a few paces before laying it down again according to some internal logic lost to the outside world.

The younger boy had been glassy eyed all morning due to a rough night. The family had been driving John suspected he would take a long nap once they got him back in the car. Dean, however, was another story; the boy liked traveling, but two days in a car was a lot to ask from a five year old, especially one with as much energy as John's oldest. He had been ancy since they left Des Moines, legs swinging distractedly as his eyes flitted from window to window. John had snapped his fingers sternly when a sneaker grazed his dashboard, and Dean tried valiantly to comply with the warning, but John couldn't fault the kid for squirming in his seat. With that in mind he whistled through his teeth, calling for Dean to herd his brother back towards the car.

Dean took Sam's hand a little too forcefully and Sam crankily jerked it free, glaring stubbornly at Dean. "I do it myself!" he said clearly. John knew he was right about the nap thing.

"Fine," Dean said, rolling his eyes. He moved forward, reaching the car a ways ahead of his brother. That's why nether his brother or father were close enough to catch Sam, when his shoelace caught on the edge of the sidewalk and send him sprawling onto the unforgiving concrete block.

John was over in two strides, just as the tears began to fall. Sam let out a garbled cry, feeling betrayed by the cruel world. John gave him an efficient once over, noticing the grazes on Sam's hands and the rip in his pant leg, but he was most concerned with the scratch and the bump from where Sam's head had bonked into the sidewalk.

He had been a father over six years, on his own with it over the last one. He had dealt with many a scrape and a bruised knee. He quickly ascertained that the injuries weren't serious. Relieved, he bounced Sam gently to take the edge of the toddler's panicked cries.

As Sam started to calm, John turned to Dean and saw that the boy's face was white as a sheet. Puzzled, he called Dean's name.

"Get me the first aid kit from the trunk," John requested when he had Dean's attention, still not understanding the look of anguish he received in reply.

"Yes, sir," Dean said, scrambling to obey.

With Sam still whimpering unhappily, John gently cleaned the scratches. Antiseptic was met with louder cries, but by the time the Band-Aids were applied, there were just a few brave tears tracing their way down the boy's chubby cheeks. As John released him, Sam turned to bury himself in Dean's arms. Dean accepted him willingly.

"Daddy?" Sam asked, looking up suddenly as he thought of something which would keep despair at bay. "Can I have chocolate?"

John grinned as it became clear the crisis was indeed past. He nodding, leaving Dean with Sam while he dug some change from his pocket, heading towards the vending machines.

When John got back to the car, Dean was waiting anxiously, wringing his hands. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said miserably.

"For what?" John asked, quickly checking on Sammy, who seemed to have gotten over the fall and happily reached for the M&Ms John offered. John smiled at him, before strapping him into the carseat and closing the door to the back, with the window open a crack so he could hear. John turned at looked seriously down at his other son. "Dean what happened?" he demanded, seeing that the older boy was now the one close to tears.

"I,I," Dean sniffed deeply, bottom lip trembling wildly. "His shoe, and I didn't…" he continued, looking up at John with bright eyes and mumbling incoherently.

Things suddenly clicked and John knew that Dean was blaming himself for Sammy's fall. "Hey," he said gently, but Dean wasn't interested in sympathy.

"I should have held his hand. It's my fault his shoe was untied," the boy said stubbornly.

"Dean, Sammy gonna be just fine."

"But…"

"No, buts. It's just a little scrape," John said firmly. "It was an accident."

"I'm his big brother. I'm s'posed to take care of him," Dean declared, repeating what John had told him time and time before.

Despite the adorable earnestness, the situation didn't seem funny to John.. The forlorn and guilt ridden figure of his five year old son hurt his heart a little. It was a guilt and fiery responsibility that was familiar to the father. It was something born of the deepest sort of love.

"Yeah, _we _are supposed to take care of him," he said, letting Dean know that he wasn't shouldering this burden alone. "And we gotta be careful, 'cause he's real little and he doesn't always know what's best or smart to do. But Sam is lucky to have a big brother like you looking out for him. You do a good job, Dean and I'm proud of you."

It seemed to hit home, though John didn't always know how to gage the boys' reactions. Sometimes things he thought were safely dealt with and defused came bubbling up again at the oddest moments. Nothing to do but roll with the punches, he mused.

John glanced back at Sam, who had spilled the M&Ms all over himself and was now digging them from the crevices of the carseat with his chubby fingers and sucking them contently. Since that situation was in order, he decided it was time for Dean to run off a little steam.

He had Dean strip to a t-shirt and sweats. Noticing the boy's involuntary shiver as the wind picked up, he ordered "Jumping Jacks!" as a warm up. Dean immediately began with military form, looking a little happier as his limbs warmed with the exercise.

John dug a stopwatch from the trunk, eyes taking in the lay of the land. The rest stop was almost deserted; he didn't think they would chance too much with a little light training. He had Dean stretch out a little, then outlined the drill. Dean would jog the 30yd distance between the grassy patch where they were standing and the tree in front of them, run around the tree, and sprint back 15 yards, till he passed the garbage can, then engage John with one of the combinations he had been taught.

Dean nodded enthusiastically, happy to release a little energy and always eager to prove what he could do to his father. On John's mark he was off, and the father watched with pride at the boy's efficient stride. It was mainly an exercise to teach Dean about controlling his breathing. He came off the sprint puffing hard, having only a few moments to compose his breathing for the attack. The first two times he came in breathless and sloppy. John corrected him: "Hand UP, keep your guard hand STRONG, foot BACK" he barked as he blocked the weak punches. The next two rounds were better; Dean kept his movements sharp, rallying for the attack and experimenting with different routines. The little boy was pretty spent by the sixth round, but John kept him moving through the circuit till they hit ten even.

"Good boy, good job," John encouraged when Dean flagged, knowing the praise put new fire in his son's eyes. "There you go, good boy. That'll do," he said when Dean finished his last round and ordered a jumping jack cool down while he dug a towel and water from the trunk. When Dean's chest stopped heaving, he had the boy towel down completely, washing the salt from his face and neck before hustling him into a clean t-shirt and some jeans, pulling a sweat shirt over the protesting head to guard against sudden chill.

Dean was feeling better as he curled up on the front seat, muscles warm and exhausted. Dad rewarded him with a packet of M&Ms, which he tore into happily as they pulled back onto the highway. Sam had fallen asleep in the warm car, secure in the knowledge that his father and brother were nearby. They would never let anything bad happen to him on their watch. He was still dozing, his face sticky with melted chocolate. John smiled at his beautiful boys, turning on the radio and hoping to hit Bobby's before dark

* * *

Author's Note: I really don't thank you guys enough for giving me so much support. I really appreciate everyone who's taken the time to read and the reviews really brighten me day. I hope you are still enjoying the story. If you have suggestions about anything, I'm all ears. 


	25. Thanksgiving

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XXV. Thanksgiving  
**

* * *

_**Bobby:** You just go find your dad. And when you do, bring him around, would ya? I won't even try to shoot him this time._

* * *

_November 22, 1984_

Sammy was fussing in the back as the Impala ground up in front of Bobby's yard. The three of them were met with the ferocious barks of Bobby's motley crew. Dean, intimidated, shadowed John closely as the father pulled Sam from the carseat. John settled his youngest on his shoulder, enduring the snotty nose that buried moodily into his jacket. Just one of the many perks of fatherhood.

Bobby came out, muttering obscenities at the mutts. John saw Dean's eyes go wide and resisted the urge to mutter something about pitchers and ears. _Who am I, my mother?  
_

"Nice going, Bobby. You just tripled the size of the boy's vocabulary." _There, that's a nice, manly alternative. _

Bobby's mouth quirked at John's sarcasm and broke into a grin when Dean protested staunchly, "I've heard those words afore."

"I'll bet you have," Bobby said cheekily.

"So, tough guy, you remember what I said would happen if I_ ever_ hear you talking like this sailor," John said meaningfully.

"_He's _the one who said it!" Dean protested, clearly recalling.

"Yeah, well, I think Bobby's pretty much a lost cause," John confided with a smart-ass grin.

"Damn straight," Bobby exclaimed, and Dean giggled.

"Bobby, these are my sons, Dean," John introduced, "and Sammy." Sam had been watching the exchange with wide eyes, reserving judgment. Bobby caught his eye and smiled, a little too toothily for Sam's taste. The baby took the ostrich approach, abruptly burying his face into John's jacket. John rolled his eyes, settling the boy with a sigh. He didn't like to admit how much he liked the warmth of those chubby arms around his neck.

"My daddy taught me how to shoot a gun!" Dean volunteered, taking an immediately liking to the rough cut hunter.

"Good to know," Bobby responded, as seriously as he could manage, to the non sequitur.

"Dean," John chided, though not harshly. It was rare for Dean to warm so quickly to someone he didn't know; John was surprised and pleased.

"I _didn't _tell him," the boy protested, glancing warily at Bobby.

"I know, but watch it."

"Fine."

"_Dean_," this time it was a little more forceful.

"I mean, yes, sir," Dean quickly amended.

"That's what I thought you meant," John joked with a grin as Bobby invited them up the creaky porch steps.

Like most hunters abodes, Bobby's cabin was filled with artifacts and books, clippings and weapons. And it was not at all childproof.

"Dean!" John warned as eager hands went directly for the figurines on Bobby's second shelf.

"Those are not toys," Bobby added, hastily removing that temptation, though there were a million others.

"Keep your hands in your pockets, buddy," John instructed and Dean literally complied, which was both cute to watch and likely to avert disaster.

"Game's on, if your interested," Bobby offered, digging a beer from the fridge.

"What game?"

"Uh, Packers and Lions. Don't tell me you forgot it was Thanksgiving?"

"I've been a little busy, Bobby," John defended.

"Apparently," Bobby chided judgmentally as he pulled out his tiny black and white, searching for reception.

"What the _hell _is that?"

"You're the one who invited yourself, Winchester," Bobby growled and John grinned, but didn't say anything more.

When Dean had got his fill of the hunter's paraphernalia, he came over to settle next to John. He started playing with Sammy, who still hadn't shaken his funk. The baby sulkily rebuffed Dean's friendly advances. "Don't!" He said when Dean tried tickling him.

"Why don't you play with your army men?" John suggested tiredly.

"They're in the car," Dean commented and John handed him the keys.

"Grab Sammy's bag for me, too."

"Yes, sir."

Dean went to the door. John, in an attempt to free an arm, had set Sam down on the couch. Sam hadn't liked that and they were negotiating a peace (which ended with Sam staunchly back on John's lap). Thus John didn't notice the wary look that Dean gave the door. The little boy's heart beat wildly as he heard the hounds sniffing outside. Even the bravest of almost six-year-olds would have trouble glaring down these dogs. But he was supposed to be a big boy and Dad had given him an order. He bravely turned the nob and slipped through the door.

The men took no notice to the raucous barking which startled Dean. The four dogs which bounded up to investigate sent him into survival mode. He scrambled away, tripping on the steps and going down hard. He caught an elbow on the side of the porch and the splintered wood left a long, jagged gash which throbbed and bleed profusely. Dean scrambled up, because the dogs were snuffling up to investigate. He was sure they smelled his fear. Holding his elbow and fighting tears, Dean scrambled back through the front door, slamming the door behind him.

"Dean..." John started, glancing over and then jumping to his feet at the sight of blood. John pushed Sam into Bobby's arms, receiving a _the hell you doing? _look as he went to his older son.

"I t-tore my jeans," Dean stammered, blushing in embarrassment and trying hard not to cry even though he was bleeding a lot and it hurt. John scooped him up, sitting him down on Bobby's wooden dining table, to look closer at the cut.

"What happened?" John demanded, thinking that the gash would definitely need stitches.

"I fell," Dean all but wailed. _Jeez, wasn't that obvious_.

"How did you fall?" John started applying pressure to stop the bleeding and a few tears squeezed out of Dean's eyes.

"I was (sniff) runnin' from the dogs."

"What?"

"They were going to get me!" Dean defended his actions.

"Those dogs won't hurt you, boyo," Bobby reassured, "they just wanted to say hello, is all."

Dean looked at him like he was crazy. Considering what had just happened, his concern seemed perfectly legitimate. Big people just didn't understand.

"Did Dean get an owie?" Sam asked, his little brow was furrowed in concern for his brother.

"Looks like it," Bobby agreed.

"BAD doggy," Sam said, angrily.

"Hey, now. They just startled 'im is all," Bobby defended.

Sam glared before demanding "Down!" on no uncertain terms. When Bobby didn't respond, Sam threw back his head stubbornly, wailing and wiggling. Cowed, Bobby put the child down.

Sam immediately trotted over to John, standing on tip toe to look earnestly up at his brother. "It's okay, Dean," he said comfortingly.

John smiled and scooped Sam up, depositing him in Dean's lap. Dean held him with one hand, tight-lipped as John cleaned up the scrapes.

"Now you have an owie too, like me." Sam appraised, pushing the bangs from his eyes and revealing the still-healing bump.

Dean didn't say anything; he was trying hard to be brave. He wasn't going to cry like a baby.

"Dean, 'm sorry I was bein' mean afore," Sam said sweetly.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said, holding his brother close.

"Dean, I'm gonna have to sew you up," John admitted.

Dean blanched. "No!" He protested.

"Yes," John said, trying to steel himself.

Bobby stepped in with a local anesthetic, which helped Dean maintain a stiff upper lip while John disinfected and sutured the cut. Dean held Sam tightly, and Sam patted his brother's right arm consolingly.

"There ya go, kiddo," John said, breathing a sigh of relief as he loosely secured the bandage. "Good job." Dean nodded, still looking and feeling fragile.

John leaned in and kissed the side of his head. "You did good," he praised. "Now," he started again, eyes twinkling again. "Bobby, what do you have in the way of chocolate?"

Dean grinned, and didn't protest which Bobby dug out a carton of chocolate ice cream. Maybe there wasn't all that much to parenting after all, John thought as he settled Dean under the crook of one arm with Sammy sitting on his other side, bouncing up and down to hear the cushion spring creak.

John and Bobby joked and reminisced for the rest of the afternoon, watching the game. When the boys needed something more than ice cream in their stomachs, they ordered a pizza.

Sure, it wasn't a traditional Thanksgiving, but the holiday meant a lot more when you have one or two things to be _really_ thankful for, John thought, mouth quirking up as he glanced down at his thing 1 and thing 2.

* * *

Author's Note: I manipulated the timeline to make this entry fall on thanksgiving. Let me know if there are more inconsistencies I should look at. Thanks to everyone who has been reading and double thanks for reviewers. Also, welcome to new readers. It's a long haul but you made it! Let me know what you're thinking.  



	26. Early Riser

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XXVI. Early Riser  
**

* * *

_**John:** Sammy, this fight is just starting. And we are all gonna have a part to play. For now, you've got to trust me, son._

* * *

_November 23, 1984_

John knew he had put the boys down too early the night before when he felt a certain toddler moving curiously on his left. Bobby just had the one fold out bed, but the three Winchesters fit just fine. John on the right, closest to the door. Dean and Sam snuggled together on the left, sliding warmly into the indentation of John's heavier weight.

The father unchivalrously feigned sleep, hoping Sam would settle or Dean would wake up to distract him. Even Bobby might… well, that probably wasn't the best idea, thought John through the cotton of sleep. He felt Sam curiously climb Mount Daddy, cracking an eye when Sammy reached his face, poking inquisitively. Sammy grinned happily while John inwardly groaned.

It was early. _Really_ early. John closed his eyes again. His stomach was decidedly queasy, unsurprising given he and Bobby had hit the hard stuff later in the evening before. He had told his old friend what had happened in their old house, their old life. Even after a year and a half, he still needed something to take the edge off that story.

"Da Da." Sammy insisted, poking him again.

"Shhhhhh," John tried pulling Sam to him gently, hoping to catch just a little more sleep. But Sam's eyes were wide and curious. Ready or not, it was time to start the day.

"Are you sleepin' Da Da?" Sam inquired.

John couldn't help smiling a little. "No, Sammy," he said truthfully, drawing on the parental reserves in one deep breath before he opened his eyes and pushed himself up. Dean was sleeping soundly, injured elbow up, breath warm and cheeks flushed slightly.

John scooped Sam up in one arm, smoothing the blankets around Dean with the other. He was rewarded with a sleepy sigh from his oldest and some type of gurgle/exclamation from Sam which he didn't quite follow, but it didn't sound distressed, so he figured he was doing alright.

The terrain of Bobby's was unfamiliar in the shadowy pre-dawn and John stumbled slightly, catching himself before he fell, but banging his shin hard against a broken rocking chair Bobby was working on. Lots of crap turned up in the salvage yard and Bobby went through regularly, fixing up whatever took his fancy.

"God _damn-it_," he bit out as the throb subsided.

"Are you hurted, Da da?" Sam asked, pulling his fingers from his mouth to pat John's shoulder consolingly.

John smiled, glad that Sam hadn't picked up the curse word... yet. He should really start censoring himself, but he just couldn't imaging his darling sons actually uttering those profanities. _Perhaps it's inevitable, them turning out as screwed up as the old man_, he thought wryly as they slipped through the door into the small kitchen.

The cabin was a bit rustic. Bobby didn't have many modern conveniences— like a coffee maker, for instance. John put the kettle on, digging around till he found the coffee canister by the stove and the camping filter in the sink.

As he puttered, John hummed a tune that had come to him in his sleep, bouncing Sammy lightly in his arms.

"Dats Momma's song!" Sam exclaimed suddenly.

John stopped for a moment, perfectly still, caught unaware.

"Right Da Da?" Sam asked worriedly.

"Yeah, buddy," John said, suddenly crushing his son to his chest as if to fill the hole evoked by the innocent words. "Did Dean teach you that?" He asked softly.

Sam nodded, pulling back to catch John's gaze with his baby eyes, which were so wise they made John swallow nervously. "'M not 'posed to tell you!" He announced, cocking his head.

"Why not?" John said, having a pretty good guess.

"'cuz, it makes you _sad_," Sam said matter-of-factly. "'cuz you miss mommy."

John smiled at that. "Do you miss mommy, Sammy?" John asked softly.

It was all too cryptic for the little guy. He didn't understand the question, but he understood the sadness in his Daddy's voice. "Yes!" he exclaimed, eyes overflowing.

John smiled sadly, a little watery himself. "Shh Shh Shh," he said, bringing the tired little head to rest on his shoulder and bouncing away the tears. Sam immediately quieted, listening intently as John hummed Mary's song a little more purposefully.

The dogs suddenly made a bit of ruckus outside. "Doggy!" Sam exclaimed, popping up, contemplative mood forgotten. He remembered what happened last night. "Bad doggy?" he asked, looking to John for interpretation.

John didn't have time for a philosophical discussion on the nature of the beast. "No, just a little scary for you little guys."

"Scawy?" Sam questioned. "You kill dem, daddy?"

"No, buddy," John said, wondering if he was wrong supposing that the life they led didn't have an effect on his baby boy. He was certainly glad Bobby hadn't been around to hear that comment.

"Hey." He said, sitting down with his mug of coffee and looking into Sammy's big, innocent eyes. "I love you, Sammy." Because Dads were supposed to say it now and again.

"Love you too, Daddy," Sammy replied, sweetly embracing John's neck and kissing his cheek.

"Aw. Well isn't that the cutest," Bobby said, teasingly, coming in from the yard. He was an early riser, too, apparently.

"Well, I think so," John said proudly, patting Sammy on the back. Sammy relaxed into him, snuggling close. The baby looked shyly at Bobby, rubbing the sleep out of his eye with a fist and then thoughtfully sucking his fingers again.

"You want some breakfast, little guy?" John asked.

Sam sat up, grinning. "Ice ceam!" He purposed, clapping his sticky hands together.

John smiled at the enthusiasm. "Ice cream? For breakfast?" He asked the baby, sounding scandalized.

"Yes!" Sam answered, nodding vigorously.

"No." John said, shaking his head tragically in a way that made Bobby wonder where the hell his tough army buddy had gone.

"Cookies?" Sam negotiated.

"I don't think so."

"Charms?"

John smiled. He, personally, didn't see the appeal of the sugary cereal, but both the boys begged him to buy it every time they went to the store. And who could resists those two persuasive faces. He shook his head, though. "We don't have any."

"_We _don't have much," Bobby said pointedly, firmly setting a box of cheerios down on the table.

"Cheerios!!" Sam said, equally excited by the prospect.

"You guessed it!" John said playfully, dumping a handful into the bowl Bobby provided from the cupboard and holding it so the toddler could reach. Sam began eating, crushing the Os satisfyingly with his little white baby teeth.

John threw a handful in his mouth, washing it down with a sip of his hot coffee.

"Me?" Sam asked, reaching for the cup.

"No, Sammy. Coffee's not good for babies." John replied, evading the reaching hands.

"'M not a baby, Daddy," Sammy protested, putting his hand up to touch John's stubbled face affectionately.

John smiled. "You're _my_ baby," he corrected, kissing the boy's head.

"Daddy's baby?"

"That's right," John said, smiling.

Sam considered it. "Okay, Da Da," he said after some thought.

"Okay, Sammy," John parroted with a grin, getting ready to start the day.

* * *

Author's Note: 

Thank you! Thank you! for your reviews!

To those of you who haven't heard, I will be finishing up this story during the summer and am taking requests from whoever wants to see something in particular before the end. This was the first: a request for a less crabby Sammy and more Sam/ John interaction. I also am going to write a chapter that has to do specifically with training the boys. Anything else? Please email me.

For those of you who don't want it to end, let me reassure you that it's more of a housekeeping thing. I think 25+ chapters is pushing the limit and think it will round out nicely. DO read my other stories! I am also thinking about writing a sequel, so don't claim that I'm abandoning you:)


	27. Insurance

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XXVII. Insurance  
**

* * *

_**John**: Here. Give them my insurance.  
**Sam**: "Elroy McGillicuddy?"  
**John**: And his two loving sons_

* * *

_December 1, 1984_

"This house smells weird," Dean announced, as John trucked their boxes in the door. The little boy was playing with Sammy on the dusty linoleum, constructing a fort out of old blankets and the scuffed plastic table in the kitchen.

They had moved south for the winter, sick of the cold and ice. Here it was brisk in the mornings, but downright warm in the slanted afternoon sun, especially when you compared the quiet Texan suburb with the tundra of Minnesota in December.

John breathed in experimentally and ended up sneezing 'cause of the dust. "You volunteering to mop the floor, kiddo?" he asked hopefully. Dean shot him that _you must be crazy _look that kids get sometimes when dealing with particularly dense adults. Apparently, he wasn't too sold on the notion.

Ah, well, they didn't have a mop anyway. John made a marginal effort with the broom the previous inhabitants had left behind, sweeping around the boys and their fort for now, but dispelling dust clouds in his wake.

John made TV dinners that night, parking the boys in front of some story about a dog while he took a look at the local papers. He had a couple of contacts in the area, but he wanted to get his bearings first. Hunters tended to be territorial and John had learned the hard way that is was best not to step on anyone's shoes when he was the new guy in town.

"Dad!" Dean called, in obvious distress, about 90 minutes later. John looked up sharply from his notes. Tears shone on Dean's long lashes and Sammy was patting his older brother consolingly.

"What's wrong?" John asked in alarm.

"Dey killed da dog," Sammy said sadly.

"Those bastards!" Dean exclaimed angrily, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"WATCH your mouth," John snapped, moving quickly to turn off the set.

"Well, they are," Dean sniffed, looking a little abashed.

"Don't use that kind of language in front of your brother!" John reprimanded.

Dean stuck his bottom lip out, but mumbled a petulant "yes, sir," when John fixed him with an expectant glare.

"Okay, guys, bedtime," John said tiredly.

"No!" Sammy protested, scooting off the couch and making a run for it. Where exactly he thought he was going was anyone's guess. It only took John two long strides to catch his wayward son, who promptly burst into tears. "I don't WANT to!" he hiccuped as John lifted him easily. "You BAT-ard."

John's eyes narrowed. _Great, just great_. He shot Dean a look, which he hoped conveyed a bit of his annoyance at this new development.

Dean's eyes were wide with shock and he fled the scene quickly, digging pjs for him and Sammy from the duffel that hadn't been unpacked yet.

"Samuel Winchester, that is not a nice word. You do NOT call me names, young man!" John scolded as he followed Dean into the bedroom the boys were going to share. "The next time I hear you boys swearing like that, I'll swat your behinds, ya hear?" he continued sternly, mainly aiming the comments at Dean.

"Yes, sir," Dean said guiltily, pulling his pajama top over his ears.

Sam seemed to sense that John was at the end of his rope and allowed himself to be changed into the loose fitting t shirt and diaper with minimal fussing. Thankfully, Dean didn't fight him too much on toothbrushing and it didn't take long before John had both boys trundled together in an adult sized sleeping bag on the bare boxspring (they hadn't brought bedding with them).

"Story!" Sam demanded, cuddling up to Dean.

John looked reluctant, but when Dean added a "please, Dad," he dug a ragged Curious George from Sam's bag and read through it, showing Dean the pictures. Sam was sleeping gustily by the time John planted a goodnight kiss on his warm forehead. Dean sunk down contentedly next to his brother and closed his eyes tight.

With the boys asleep, things were just a little too quiet. John, who spent most of the day with his attention split between research and parenthood, found it a little too unnerving and kept the TV on low in the background while he finished up his notes.

* * *

He had only been asleep a couple of hours when Dean hissed "Dad," from the doorway. John slept on the couch in front of the TV, oblivious. When his Dad didn't stir, Dean trundled up, using his free hand to wake him. "DAD!" 

John sniffed blearily, fumbling for the light and hearing Sammy fussing insistently. He swallowed dryly as his eyes focused on his elder son standing barefoot with Sammy in his arms. The younger boy was crying soft, wracking sobs that immediately had John sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Dean nervously bounced Sam in an attempt to ease the kid's sobs. Sam's face was scrunched up in obvious discomfort, a fist rubbing unhappily at his right ear.

_This is not a good sign_, John thought, taking the toddler as Dean all but pushed him into John's arms.

"Something's wrong with Sammy," Dean said, brow furrowed with worry. His eyes clearly demanded that Daddy _fix it_, immediately.

John tried all the usual tricks, rubbing his back, bouncing him . Sam's cries only grew in urgency. "Can you tell me what's wrong, buddy?" John pled, thinking that the boy's skin was flushed and hot, like he had a fever.

Sam just continued to wail, angrily clutching at his ear. Well, John was no idiot. Usually the part the kids least wanted you to get a look at were the places all the action was taking place. "Okay, buddy. Let me take a look," he said soothingly, gently detaching the sticky fist to take a look at the reddened ear. He couldn't see anything too out of the ordinary, just some redness. Nonetheless, it was pretty clear to him what the problem was.

"Dean," he said, making a decision. "Get your coat and shoes."

Dean hurried to obey. "What's wrong with him?" the boy asked as he slipped on his sneakers under the pajama bottoms. "Is he possessed?" Dean was shocked at the vehemence of Sam's cries. This definitely wasn't normal behavior for the 19-month-old. Dean's patient ministrations were almost always the only thing needed to quiet Sammy when he woke unexpectedly in the middle of the night.

"No Dean, I think he's got an ear infection," John said, shifting Sam so he could pull on his slacks and slip into his own shoes. "Get his bag," John ordered, as he strode into the kitchen, cradling his unhappy one-year old to his shoulder. He filled a couple of bottles with milk and stuck them in the bag Dean brought over for him. John slides a sweatshirt of Dean's over Sam's shoulders, which covers him like a dress, but keeps him warm.

"Here's your bear, Sammy. Do you want your bear?" Dean said, bringing over the ragged stuffed animal that spent most of its time trampled in the Impala's footwell. Sam didn't seem interested, but John grabbed it in one hand as he ushered them out the door.

Sam wasn't prone to ear infections, not like Dean had been as a baby, but John recognized the signs from when he and Mary had hustled their first child back and forth from the emergency room because of painful middle ear inflammation.

They tripped over the unfamiliar, sparse brown lawn. John unlocked the Impala, depositing Sam into his carseat, where he began to screech. "Da Da!" he yelled, offended. Dean slipped in beside him, gently stroking the baby's hair and holding out the bear again. Sam accepted it momentarily, before taking his frustration and pain out on the innocent sack of stuffing and flinging it down on the seat beside him.

"It's okay, Sammy, it's okay," Dean comforted. Sammy stopped the high caliber screams, but tears continued to course down his cheeks and he clutched Dean's shirt in one sweaty fist while sucking in shaky breaths.

John drove to the emergency room swiftly, hurtling over the dark streets. He hated seeing his boy in so much pain. Each plaintive cry cut at him. He felt responsible. It was probably the dust of the new house that had gotten in, 'causing the irritation and infection to set in over night.

"It's okay, Sammy," he heard himself say, mimicking his older son. "We'll get you fixed up, kiddo."

He parked the car and hustled the boys through the parking lot to the emergency room. Sam buried his face unhappily into John's shoulder, which muffled his continuing sobs. Dean struggled to keep up with his dad's long strides, but his young face mirrored the worry and determination on John's grim features.

"We need to see a pediatrician as soon as possible," John said at the desk, dark eyes daring the young secretary to put them at the back of the line. It was a fairly slow night, but the woman pressed a clipboard of forms into John's hands and sent him to the waiting area.

"Ouchie, Da Da!" Sam broke out. "Ouchie."

John sunk down in one of the waiting chairs, which was plastic and too small for him. "shh, shh, shh" John said, gently stroking the boy's head.

"Is it your ear, Sammy?" Dean asked sympathetically

"Yeees," Sammy whined tearfully, dripping snot and tears.

John had Dean sit down beside him and put Sam on his lap. He pulled out a bottle that he thought might distract Sam a little, handing it to Dean, who knew what to do. Sam sucked a few gulps before refusing the nipple, crying and reaching out for John. John petted him briefly, but picked up the clipboard.

He worried his lip, trying to remember the medical history. He hadn't taken the kids in since the clinic before kindergarten for Dean's shots, but Sam was generally a pretty healthy kid. He had a copy of their immunization record, knew that Sammy had been up to date at 6 months, but hadn't taken care of any of his subsequent immunizations. Mary had always been the one to fill out these kinds of forms.

When he got to the insurance information, John dug out a fake insurance card his friends had gotten for him.

Pastor Jim had been appalled that the man had let their medical insurance lapse and had quickly dipped into the church's emergency services to make sure the boys were covered. It had given him six more months to figure things out, but at the end of that time John didn't even have a steady address, let alone an income that could cover them.

Bobby had offered a more unorthodox solution, handing him a credit card that read Harvey Kennedy. It had a limit of $5,000 dollars that, so long as he was careful, they wouldn't ever have to pay. Said that he'd look into a family insurance plan that could be similarly billed.

John quickly jotted down the false names, feeling a little guilty. He put Jim down as the emergency contact and then gave up, reaching out for Sammy, who was still whining for his papa.

"Dean, you let me do the talking in there, okay?"

Dean nodded solemnly, sitting tiredly at John's elbow until the nurse called them in. She took Sam's temperature from his good ear, confirming John's suspicion of a slight fever. They were ushered in to see a doctor, who looked dead on his feet. Not surprising considering the hour. Sammy took one look at the stranger and let loose a few offended cries.

"NO!" he yelled when the man came at him with an odd looking instrument. John caught the chubby, flailing arm as it attempted to fend off the doctor's intrusion.

"No hitting, Sammy. He's just trying to help."

"NOOooo!" Sam said, squirming in his father's arms.

John held him firmly, resting his head against his shoulder while the doctor maneuvered an otoscope in to take a look, affirming John's diagnosis of a nasty ear infection.

"Yep, got some puss in there," the doctor said, looking intently for a moment and then proscribing some antibiotics and advising them as to children's pain relievers. Dean made a face as the doctor described in detail how the liquid was putting pressure on Sam's ear drum.

"That's it?" Dean commented a little disgustedly as they left the doctors office.

Sam was still in obvious discomfort and John had to agree with the sentiment, though he simply offered a stern "hush" as he steered his elder son out with his left hand.

Taking the boys with him into the 24 hour pharmacy still in their pjs wasn't his first choice, but there was no way he was going to leave them in the car. John blearily handed the attendant the prescription, letting Dean pick out some candy while they wait for it to be filled. He grabs a bottle of tequila for himself, all the while running a soothing hand over Sam's trembling back. The tears are gentling now, which is probably because he's been upright for a while, which relieves some of the pressure.

He's still rubbing his ear, absently. Eyes riveted on Dean and one stubborn hand still clinging to his Daddy's shirt.

They're all exhausted by the time they get the small bottle of antibiotics and collect the children's Motrin, courtesy of Mr. Kennedy. Now it is simply a matter of getting Sam to down the medicine.

"Yuck!" Sam says disgustedly, spitting out their first attempt. John tries not to swear as he digs out a handkerchief to catch the sticky liquid that mixes with the tears tracking down Sam's cheeks.

Dean's the one who finally coaxes Sam to swallow. "Good boy!" John praises in relief and Dean spares him a tired smile.

* * *

The morning's cold and dark as they trundle home. Sam's whimpers grow soft as the medicine seems to start working and by the time John pulls in, both boys' heads are lolling in sleep. 

He takes Dean in first, feeling the boy his head tiredly on his shoulder. He settles him in the boys' room, running an appreciative hand over the creased forehead and smoothing out the frown lines that don't belong on a kid so young. Then he hurries out for Sam, who stirs unhappily as he lifts him from the carseat. John reassures him with a soft whisper, closing the doors quietly behind them.

Kicking off his shoes, John lays down on the couch. He arranges Sammy's lax limbs over his chest, keeping him at an incline according to the doctor's directions, watching as the baby sucks tiredly on one fist until they're both sleeping deeply.

* * *

A/N: Finally, another chapter! This one's for all of you who begged for a sickly Sammy. (Sorry if it got too long for you) Thank you all for your suggestions. Never fear, I am still working my way through them! 


	28. Questions

**Raised Like Warriors **

**Part XXVIII. Questions  
**

* * *

_**Dean**: _You know, when we were little-- you couldn't been more than 5-- you just started asking questions. How come we didn't have a mom? Why do we always have to move around? Where'd Dad go when he'd take off for days at a time? I remember I begged you-- "Quit asking, Sammy. Man, you don't want to know." I just wanted you to be a kid...Just for a little while longer. I always tried to protect you...Keep you safe...Dad didn't even need to tell me. It was just always my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job... I had one job...

* * *

_December 10, 1984_

Sometimes, John thought to himself, I can be such an ass.

He was sitting in the Impala, listening to his five-year-old son sniff manfully. Dean was trying hard to hold back tears. The kid was tough, not one sniffle at the nasty bump he got tumbling over the railing at the farmhouse in Texas, or when he had sprained his ankle dropping from the monkey bars in the schoolyard. But his mean ol' dad snapping like a wounded animal? that was too much, even for a resilient kid like Dean.

John's jaw clenched and he wished he could call it all back, the whole freakin' drive from Texas to Oregon, the cranked heat of the Impala and the wet squish of sneakers, the babble of voices and the impatient whines from the boys cooped-up in the back seat or tumbling restlessly around their seedy motel rooms. Things in Texas just hadn't worked out and so they were on the road again, checking out a haunting on the West Coast.

It was true that most of the profanity had been directed at the pouring rain, and the truck that had blocked the turn off, the holiday traffic starting too damn early, but he hadn't exactly been gentle when he told the boys to pipe down, taking his frustration out on Dean, who had merely asked if he had to go to school again once they found their new house.

"Yes, Dean. You have to go to school, you know that."

"I don't like school," Dean pouted, staring moodily out at the tall forests on the side of the winding highway.

"Dad? Can we get some ice cream?" catching sight of a Dairy Queen sign.

"It's the middle of freakin' winter, Dean! Who the hell wants ice cream when it's pouring rain outside?!"

His ill temper was met with two wide-eyed stares from the back. "Sorry, Dad," Dean whispered, making John feel like a first class jerk.

"So'ry, Daddy," Sam echoed, though he didn't know what he was apologizing for.

John rubbed a hand through his hair with one-hand, trying to figure out what to do.

This had been so much easier when Mary was around to buffer him and his big mouth. She would send him that glare, ushering Dean into the next room to explain things in a way the kid could understand. Bad Dad would stew in his own juices, feeling awful, but knowing his kid was being taken care of. Dean would go down for a nap, or be left to some project, and his beautiful girl would come back and dress him down, flashing him those eyes, and then forgive him with a wry smile, and a kiss if he was lucky…

Being a single parent sucked, in more ways than one.

"Dean," he said, trying for gentle. The boy's head snapped up and he quickly wiped away the few tears that had escaped.

"Yes, sir?" the voice said, wavering.

"Don't cry…"

"Sorry," Dean said, sniffing.

He hadn't meant it as an order. "Dean, I didn't…"

"It's O.K., Dad," Dean said sternly.

"We'll stop for food soon," John said, capitulating. Things were different now and he was just doing the best he could.

He could tell by the way Sam was kicking restlessly in his carseat that the boys couldn't take much more of this. Some place around Salem would be okay for today. They could jog up to Portland tomorrow.

"What do you want for supper, Dean-o?"

Dean shrugged, looking out the window again, watching the little drops of water creep down the glass.

"How about some pizza?" John suggested.

"'k," was the unenthusiastic response.

"Dean," John said, annoyance creeping into his voice despite his best intentions.

Dean met his eyes in the rear-view mirror, face solemn. "Sammy doesn't like pizza, Dad."

Right. Okay. For a one-year-old, Sam was pretty opinionated. They didn't go to Macdonald's because of Sam's tendency to burst into tears at the sight of their mascot and John was so sick of "Booger" King, as Sam dubbed it, tickling Dean's five-year-old sense of humor to no end, the thought of another "happy meal" made him physically ill. He was also absolutely positive that he ended up wiping more food from the baby's face, hands and shirt than had ever got into his little belly.

He gave the toddler a mock scowl through the mirror, and stuck out his tongue, which made Sam giggle. At least somebody understood him.

Okay, so. Food, he thinks. And they had to get some gas for the Impala, too.

He ended up picking a warm-looking family diner, holding Sam under his coat as the three of them ducked through the downpour.

"Dad, my socks are wet," Dean complained.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have walked through that puddle."

Dean scowled, crossing his hands over his chest until John tapped him on the back of the head in warning. "We can change 'um when we get back to the car, but right now you are just going to have to deal, okay?"

Dean directed his angry glare at the floor, huffing.

"Dean Matthew, I am not kidding around," John said, but Dean was spared a further lecture when the waitress ushered them into a booth, lugging over a booster seat for Sam and pressing a cup full of broken crayons into Dean's hand and laying down some kids' menus which simple designs for the boys to draw on. Sam decided that the scene lacked color and drew enthusiastic scribbles on the smiling lumberjack. Dean studied his menu closely while John watched like hawk for the coffee he had ordered.

The warm liquid tasted so good on the damp day, that John retrospectively got the boys some hot chocolate. Dean decided on the grilled cheese and John ordered the steak, planning to share a plate with Sam.

"Da Da?" Sam queried, "Whatz Dean doing?"

John resisted the urge to say "being a big meanie," realizing that would be immature. "Why don't you ask him?" he growled instead.

Sam obediently bobbed towards his brother, "Dean, what ar you doin'?" he asked, sucking on the sippy cup John had used to prevent utter mayhem with the whipped cream laden liquid and twirling a curl with his other hand.

Dean shot John a look that clearly said he was on to him. Using his little brother to soften him up usually worked, 'cause the two of them usually got along so well.

"I'm jus' drawing," Dean said, gentling as he turned to Sammy.

"Oh," Sam said, "Dean, why are dere trees inside?"

Dean glanced up to where Sam pointed, at the decorated Christmas trees which had sprung up way too early for John's comfort. At least here they were real, filling the room with a pine smell, rather than the aluminum monstrosities Mary had always insisted on, John thought, eyes going sad.

"Dean! How come?" Sam insisted, bringing John's attention back to his sons.

Dean shrugged, glancing at Dad and looking down. "'cuz it's Christmas."

"Oh," Sam said.

"Well, it's not Christmas yet," John interrupted hastily, glad that he had a few more weeks to figure out THAT whole problem. Practically a whole month, didn't he?

"Dean! What'z Christmas?"

Dean again looked pleadingly at John, but this time the man purposefully left his son out to dry, wondering if maybe he could get a few clues from Dean's answer.

"It's when people, most people, um… put up Christmas trees 'n there's, like, candy and presents and stuff."

"Pre-sents?" Sam said, leaning forward with interest.

"Yeah, like one time Santa brought me a truck and some army guys."

John remembered picking it out with Mary and how Dean's eyes had gone wide as saucers at the sight of the red fire engine under the tree.

"…'n Gramma got me _clothes_," Dean continued, wrinkling his nose as he slurped up some whipped cream from the top of his mug. "But Santa only brings you stuff if you're good," Dean warned seriously. "And I don't know if… he might not be able to…"

"He'll come," John said, with startling finality. Dean glanced up quickly.

"Well, last year, he…"

"This year, he'll come, Dean," John said, barely remembering the cold day last December when it had been hard enough to feel human, let alone jolly and wondering if he could manage it this year, for his kids.

"I'm GOOD!" Sam protested, sounding worried and Dean squirmed guiltily.

"You're both my good boys," John said placatingly, mopping up a spill with his napkin

* * *

Even fed and with the wet socks issue taken care of, Dean was in a quiet mood for the rest of the evening. Bath time, which was usually one of the boys' few opportunities to release a little pent-up energy, was more of a solemn affair which left only a few mini lakes on the floor of the bathroom. 

The boys were hustled into warm pjs and quickly scrambled into bed, where they made a "fort," which mainly consisted of Dean holding the blankets over their heads and turning on a flashlight, with Sammy crawling on and around him.

John envied them the safe, warm cocoon, watching the light play against the ugly brown blanket and hearing their high chatter.

The dark nest provided the illusion of privacy. But while it was true that John couldn't see the expression on his son's face, he heard the quiet sob easily in the quiet room. His heart twinged painfully and he was about to invade their secret place, when he heard Sam's worried question.

"Dean, what'z wrong?" the baby asked earnestly, and John saw the lump of his son crawling over to lay himself comfortingly in Dean's lap.

Dean shook his head, shaking the fort. "Nothing, Sammy," he lied.

"Then why are you crying?" Sam asked, seeming a little frightened. He sat up and put his chubby arms comfortingly around Dean. Dean squeezed him back, but didn't lay his burden on those tiny little shoulders.

"Do you have an owie?"

Dean shook his head.

"Is it 'cuz of Santa, Dean?" Sam guessed. "Is he scary?" He did bear a suspicious resemblance to a clown.

"No, Sammy."

"Is it 'cuz of Momma?"

Dean hugged him tighter, but didn't say anything. Sam laid his heavy baby head on Dean's shoulder, patting Dean's back lightly like Daddy did when Sammy was sad. "It's O.K., Dean," he said.

John felt helpless, listening with tears in his eyes.

It seemed forever until the soft sobs quieted and the fort collapsed. When their breathing was steady with sleep, John gently extracted the flashlight and rearranged his boys, tucking the blankets around them. They were tangled together, like they had ever been.

He laid a soft kiss on each forehead, careful that none of his silent tears fell on their sleeping faces. Why did everything have to be so damn hard? he thought, feeling wholly inadequate to take care of the two little angels entrusted to his care.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so I am a slacker. Don't worry, I won't end the story before it's time and sorry if you've been impatient for more. This is, unfortunately, set in December. If that bugs you, you could hold off and just read it all in a few months!  



End file.
